A lone arch, standing free, with nothing on either side or above them; an arch, which enters and exits onto nothing, Niemandsland never fulfilled. Though it only appears to them far and large, huge from here, it’s a low arch, its opening’s smalclass="underline" to enter, they’ll have to suck and stoop, must become humbled, be made modest again; they usher themselves still in seating order, roughly, elbowing, pushing, it’s madness, keep forward. It’s suddenly hot (it’d been winter): hell if they believe in it should be this hot, that’s how, though they don’t believe, they’re living it here and now, shanking, shouldering, angrily pleasant — and not hot exactly but fevered, a delirium through which they’re wandering, exhausted, heads shvitzing, and pits…sucking under their tongues: a bottle’s cloth teat; a railway ticket used once but unpunched; an edge of ex libris marked with a temperature number.
An arch, pushed up, it stands atop a mound, a hill, a high mountain — the pressure of the arch, the pull and push the very source of its support, and how a force is pulling and pushing them, too: Singer struggling up against his attacking heart, what’s called a preexisting condition; the Feigenbaums, the Rosenkrantzs, Singers, and Tannenbaums, stepping intrados to extrados and all that pagan parsing, the watchwords of idols: the archivolt with its inscription we’re too distant from, too far to read, the soffit, it’s unreadable, also…the vaulted above with its ogive, as sharp as a knife, murderous, then toward the middle of the arch, the hole, the drop, machicolation’s the term, from where the oil or boilingwater would be poured upon any enemy advancing, invading; progress in its deathmarch, slowed as their feet are made shoes themselves through procedures of callus, brass tacks, and metal — and how that wound opens: widens to the dip of the moon that’s only the sweep of a spotlight’s escape, and everything wanders: they grovel before the steps that lead toward it, up, the winding aisles and pillowed stones; stepping high over these hazards, as some are path slates, while others are as snares and barbs, bombs and mines, and how you never know which unless you step, or until. Know this, though: that upon passage through the arch, there’s no mezuzah to forget without kiss — if ever we arrive, and with our mouths survived.
An arch: stones go up then stones go down. Without mortar, it’s pressure alone that holds this thing up.
Once upon a morning, someone would’ve pulled up the sun: an old hand long unionized amid the rigging and tugging, would’ve risen it to shine through the arch with a frayed pole that’d serve as a rope — the sun to be framed in the arch, its face revealed, appearing as if only to receive the glory of the horizon’s siegheiling; then, risen under its own momentum and higher, up to the middle of the sky without middle, millions if not more of an archaic measurement above — it’d fix, be held, sun of Joshua, without shadow, day waiting…
An arch, skysized, though they still must stoop to pass through, to pass over unto — an arch, the entrance to and exit from, with nothingness on either side…
And then, that same Someone would’ve pulled the sun down, lowered it toward the horizon just opposite; hauling in all the properties for dimwatted storage. Even the sun falls, and in now’s inner light, the dinnerguests — because they are dinnerguests, and late, hungry, starving — throw shadows, as they gather themselves toward the set; they approach from the east, advancing, invading, a swarm, freshly showered locusts, shorn with their wives…hauling what they’re hauling you’d be slow, too, but they’re trying.
As they were late for the show, and as the show ended late, now they’re late for their dinner, expected: with a candle still burning held by a boy not so young anymore, melted old in his lasting, then a couple even with flowers, which have been snipped from the wilts of the wayside — essentially stolen, then wrapped up in skin, which is theirs though it be borrowed or bargained or dripping, and wine, which is red, dribbling behind them suspiciously thin; emptyhanded’s no way to arrive, no way to treat a host treating you. As they gather over the land, last explosions are heard, creationary clumps not a warning — smoke to the east they’re fleeing, if east: suns other and younger. They’re fired toward the arch, is the feeling: it’s oy the heat, which is worse though also welcomed as it means they still feel, then the smell, too, the burning, the singe of the sauce: baked chicken, and is that soup cooling on the stovetop above — tell me, I’m that lucky?
They smell; their nostrils open into their faces, eating up their heads into just more empty space to furnish then water with feed; there’s a distant door, opening…gusts: the smells of cedar and pine, lemonlime, which could as much be from the wood polish as the outdoors, from the forest as dark as it’s deep that’ll hide like a mouth as well as it swallows, keeps down; the smells, too, of fat, onion, paprika; they’re desperate for a snort, a schmeck to renew. Their mouths plump; saliva drips from the lip still ahead, trails from them for others to follow: a wandering path of goldening noodles, the more boiled the less hard the less straight and as yellow as yolks, with maybe a little cinnamon dusting, or sugar, that imitation cherry topping, too, not too much to ask; with each false wishniak sac soft in the redness of the #40 dye, how you bite into one and it just seeps into your tongue, you know, as your tongue itself and the pareve of it all’s as a sin: these noodles rise toward them, to greet, as if to wave, curl into their nostrils, then as if the shed skin of serpents, harden again, fossilize fixed, pulling them in, further and near and held tightly. Fumigations, as of the Temple days, but they’re themselves the sacrifices, and yet still how this offering’s intended for them, which means martyrdom. Such expectation, this sense without taste: wafting through their hooks caked in the mucuses of over six million infections; they inhale deeply, a reflex once guilty: enhancing the medicinal effect, as intended: them coming back to life, now that they’ve been called to account…deep in the diaphragm, a lineup at gut, as if reporting; they sneeze themselves into coughs, their lungs milk out a yellow, a responsive pure gold; their forms are wracked, they’re sent into involuntary fits, seizures, or it’s only now that they’re rushing, scrambling, no time to waste.
It’s not only the allergies or infections, though; it’s the promise of food more than the food itself, then the drink, the zissen l’chaim, the mashke, the schnapps, not even that — it’s the old appetite for the as-yet-unfulfilled. Their handkerchiefs, in their pockets, have been in their respective families for who knows how many generations ever since Adam first dressed Eve only in order that she should have a pocket for that apple of hers and so keeping her hands free for tree’s cleaning, the cooking of Eden: napkins stolen from the tables of every diningroom ever liquidated to stain more than could be sopped with a badge or by a country absorbed, clumped into tight balls, into furrowed globes, wadded with snot and liquids in a respiratory ersatz of rainbows. Approaching the summit, this Sinai’s high arch — they clear their throats, an invocation of phlegm, only in order to greet, to meet, say Shalom; only in order to tell their future generations of Adams and Eves about their own passage here — how they came to be at this dinner, how they came to sit and be served only after their crawl through the desert like snakes…the wasteland infertile no good racked an ocean away for the torture, the work details, the lineups, the musters, the no food or drink hunger and thirst, O the ovens!