This weekend is Rosh Hashanah (Jewish new year). My husband’s idea of celebrating involves bringing home two jars of gefilte fish (blech), some apples, and bags of Bamba and Bissli. That will probably be the extent of our acknowledgement of the holiday. We’re not big on tradition around here.
Some of you commented on the game that Hubby and I played for his birthday last month. I have written a poem about it that may give a little glimpse into how we view religion in my house. For those of you who take your beliefs seriously, you may want to skip this one. It’s not meant to be offensive, but if you’re particularly sensitive, it’s probably not your cup of tea. And if you are offended, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. (And as a reminder, Hubby is Jewish/atheist, and I was raised Christian but am not much of anything these days.)
This is the game: We choose
our gods, the idols of our conquests.
You, the plastic Moses, shielded
behind a tablet of rules. Me,
machine gun Buddha, laughing.
We rain down our wrath
in firestorms and floods, crush
non-believers under our thumbs.
Or woo the fallen with promises
of wishes granted and life
ever after. Either way, the goal
is the same—rule the world.
Play people like the pawns
we move around the board.
You win. Twice. The game
is packed and put back
on the shelf. We say we’ll play
again, before the next birthday.
And Buddha laughs:
menacing, maniacal, merciless.