The Word for Light

Tonight, when I strike a match in my kitchen
and say, lehadlik ner shel Chanukkah—
the word for light catches in my throat
like a bone.

Blessed are You—
You who are praised in every kaddish,
great and holy—
they say Your name grows
each time we say it.

Does it grow tonight
by the muzzle-flash,
by the blood on the boardwalk?

The sea keeps davening
its indifferent psalm,
kol Adonai al ha-mayim,
voice of the Unending on the waters—

but today the loudest voice
was the news anchor
mispronouncing Chanukkah
over donuts growing stale
and plastic dreidels
behind police tape.

Half a world away,
my heart is pressed between the pages
of someone else’s siddur,
stained with someone else’s
first-night oil.

Half a world away
I watch my own candle burn,
refusing to believe this
is what it means
to increase the light.