“A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out.” (Lev.6:6)

Kindling is easy.
I nudge a lighter
with my thumb:

instant flame for
the shiva candle
on my counter.

After seven days
that flame dies.
Does my father

recede further? No —
his eyes are gone
but not the spark

that lit them.
The altar is gone;
the fire’s not.

The Temple’s gone
like dad’s body,
returned to earth.

The Shabbes table
is an altar now,
complete with salt.

There are candles,
but they aren’t
fire forever burning.

The fire forever burning
is the fact of Shabbes,
the act of Shabbes.

And my father?
Cigar smoke lingers
like priestly incense.

If I can
hear his voice,
remember his laugh

he’s still here
though I can’t clasp
his hand anymore.

We remember Shabbat.
We remember our dead.
The fire does not go out.

This poem serves as my d’varling, offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services and cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.  Written in memory of my dad Marvin Barenblat z”l, for whom I’ve been sitting shiva all week.