The Electric Menorah
Every Chanukah we lit the menorah,
waited for all the candles to burn down
to that whiff of smoke that reminded us
of the ascending soul: not so much
for love of the dancing flickers, but fearing
if we turned our backs for an instant,
the flames would burn down the whole house.
So a few years ago, I bought a used electric one,
pleasantly surprised at how cheap it was,
until we switched it on, and discovered
one candle—not the shamus—the one
we light the others with—was a dud.
Too late to heed my mother’s advice
that what’s cheap is dear, we shrugged
and said impromptu prayers for the health
and happiness of everyone we knew,
for world peace, and happily ignored
the menorah until we went to bed.
Still, it nags at me, that imperfection,
but even more that it’s all so easy now:
a flick of the switch and there’s light,
as opposed to my childhood ritual
of lighting the shamus, then the others,
night after night until all nine glowed and swayed,
as if around a campfire where everyone sang,
“Kumbayah,” like the world depended on it,
which it still does, only more so than ever.