Joshua Cohen - Witz

A woman whom Ima and His father who’s Aba call Wanda as she calls them Misses & Mister, called, and how now, with His newfound ability, He wants to wish her a Merry Merry with skills, a very very special whatever it is that she observes on this day today or tomorrow, the Erev of the true holiday, whichever was important, more so, was real and was theirs — tomorrow, He understands, which is also today, to be marked by His slicing, to be sanctified at the sharp of a knife; the day to become hallowed by tipsnipping, at the earliest hours then the dribbly, latening suck of the wound to stem the flow as they did to keep safe and healthy back then in the desert flawless and flowless, way before the very discovery of disease. In the days back when people had to die so that we could ever exist, fallen in the merit of our way a hell’s future: potential, Benjamin, promise, Benjamin, already He understands His own name, and His purpose, to live with this knowledge and for it — but Covenant, appointment, deposit on the rabbi who’s the mohel or no, and despite the caterer and famished phonecalls to guests, travel agencies, car rentals, area hotels the negotiation of a spare bed, between His legs, His foreskin now sheds on its own, a reddened wrinkly rainbow arcing a day early, too late; the partihued skin of a snake grown since His birth, it flakes again to the mattress, without knife or other sharp save that of the night in its freeze, then with a hiss goes gusted out the window opened to the suck of the wind. A plastic bag, a burger’s unwrapped, it’s shameful, embarrassing; though, as the gusts gust always impermanent, this condition regrettable, brutely unfixed.

As Benjamin would grow, so would the foreskin again (you want me to give a call, leave a message beeped with the relatives and the friends, set a raindate, kept snowlate, apologize and reschedule — every week, on the day, on the hour or no), it would grow back, Him as His being born again and again, every word of His first, every skin felt like His last ever flayed, such a pain — how its hollowness, a shell, a hull or husk, would manifest and make scarce of its own accord, and on it, as well, there founded upon its most sensitive tip surrounded with soil, a brilliant bloom from a roil of waste: it would grow only to fall, would resurrect itself then shed only to be risen then, regenerating all over again — and lost: out windows, and between cracks in the sidewalk and sofa, between the den, family, or livingroom, rivenroom’s cushions of couch to be left never found — to disappear itself, though, in only its form, not to decompose but to become different, be changed, sustained into what seems to be manna.

No steady hand involved either, no putzing nothing around, nu, problems He had.

God, Wanda thinks, look how we shake.

To think that eight burning birds would perch on His windowsill, then in the middle a stork landing to swallow them up.

Or that nine graves would combust in the cemetery just down the Parkway where His people are buried.

Or else, how there’d been not just one pillar of fire descendant, but eight others, too, each the distended sharp of a star — that would be how.

It’s tough — how miracles are only miraculous if they never come to be, only if they retain promise, remain to be prayed for, their granting made eternally late, postponed forever tomorrow.

In the beginning, it’d been Hanukah that Hanna had counted by, its candles lighting the week until His birth. Hanukah that newest of holidays, as if rendered sacred only by its secular proximal, Xmas — to the cynical, not to be trusted: the Festival of Lights, rededication yadda, those pellucid, Selucid nights; the holiday upon which Jesus wrestled the King of the Greeks, nude and greased, for eight straight days in the midst of the Temple defiled. 50 % off, two for the price of your firstborn, for a limited time only — a seasonal bonus for the boychicks departmented down in the kindled inferno of Marketing.

In observance, a question, what did the daughters receive?

On the first night, it was nightlights with which to illuminate their hallways on their ways to the toilet to pee out their shimmery gold; on the second night, waterbeds all around to replace their old, uncomfortable, unsafe, bunkbedding units; then the third, ferns potted and other plants like aloe, say, and flowers like irises, symbolizing the trees Israel had purchased for them out in Palestein, a transaction made certain with the seals of certificates stating as much and printed on the paper that is their rough flesh; on the fourth, new lamps and new fixtures and sconces — the better to read by, the better to be read to by; and then, upon the fifth, stuffed birds and fish, a herd or pack only to become increased like sands and stars on the next night, the sixth, on which it’d been stuffedanimals again this time like lions and bears they beat each other with on their heads then ripped the limbs off them and tails and eyes, ears, and noses and slept with them near (except for Liv, for her it’d been the renting of a horse, a pony, really, and leased on monthly installments, to be stabled just three exits north, free to be ridden on weekends, whenever else she was free after school for Hanna to drive, Israel to pick up); upon the seventh, pillows and sheets and comforters both solid mature and youthfully cartoonily patterned, new bedding on which they would finally rest watery-eyed, swollen with appreciative lap; and lastly upon the eighth…hymn, they forget. After the litany of creation in its lights, water, leaves of grass, fish and meat, they could care less what came next, waiting all the while for what they really desired, which they knew just as well as their parents did would be posthumous: whatever it was the kinder nextdoor and at school had gotten, and so how they had eventually to get that, too, come the start of school after break and then, later — upon the longer, phantomly plagued ninth night and beyond, the wandering night soon to consume with its darkness and oil be damned — to receive into their midst a brother, their greatest gift gotten, or so Israel would say to their disappointment, or so Hanna would have them believe.

To receive is to want, it’s been said, that to give is to ask.

As for Him, what if anything did He Himself get, save parents and sisters and life itself, for this His first holiday: what booty, what bounty, what price?

In one tradition, it’s only a memory, coming early, In the beginning belated…a present, a past — even before the birth, this a life prior to the laden table, all trauma’s to be repressed, to a basement ever lower, and even less finished. It’s a memory that’s gifted into His stream, winging around Him with veiny ribbons and bows a week before birth, two weeks prior to the death of His mother He’s inside, awaiting arrival, outliving a Messiah’s gestation, nine months, nine moons, a sunstilled Biblical day, only a moment — until He falls through the gate no longer strait, through Hanna’s lips wilting. His isn’t sleep in the womb, isn’t awake, neither dreaming, that was a previous life. A thrum or sensation, what He remembers as either, or both, as blood through His now bodied soul, a movement, a rush: it’d been a knock, there was a distinct rap at the door, at first, it’s a given…might’ve been a knock on the frontdoor, or at the backdoor, whether it’s at the porchdoors exterior to the interior doors of the porches, or, improbably, at the garagedoor, the exterior door to the basement perhaps wholly unfinished, or else upon any one of the who knows how many, too many of them, interior doors, including those of the showers and the toilet stalls’ sliding partitions. Benjamin’s not about to know which, how could He, prisoner of this swell, trapped behind the fleshdoor, the stomach’s high and thick wall. As per our sages, however, it’s at the frontdoor, and it’s the knock of the elderly, the frail, a wizened mensch who’s been denied so many times that three or so wouldn’t seem so terrible, would they, a mensch named Nitz this night of nights, none too witzful, how he makes do: he knocks onto His heart — a clock caged in His rising ribs, an alarm, and Benjamin’s moaning, to suck at both His grown toes.