I pulled my garlic out of the garden yesterday. It is drying on old screens lined up on the porch, fists of flavor patiently waiting.

The Garlic

Rabbi of condiments,
whose breath is a verb,
wearing a thin beard
and a white robe;
you who are pale and small
and shaped like a fist,
a synagogue,
bless our bitterness,
transcend the kitchen
to sweeten death—
our wax in the flame
and our seed in the bread.

Now, my parents pray,
my grandfather sits,
my uncles fill
my mouth with ashes.

—Bert Meyers, from In a Dybbuk’s Raincoat: Collected Poems, University of New Mexico Press, copyright © 2007 by Bert Meyers