I already feel oil in my pores break yet
another latke in the pan because of course
I’m impatient over the frying. I set out
more condiments than candle holes.
Onion juice sighs into my tear ducts,
the yellow white layers flapping against the grater
oil splatters in firework bursts
and no, I didn’t grate my own potatoes or
make the biscuit dough from scratch
but we all gorge on donuts anyway once
the centers are stretched into astonishment
before turning golden plopped into
a brown bag with a puff of sugar. There are
no children anymore so we accommodate
our own memories of tradition, turn presents
into cocktails, one for each night though
it’ll be a miracle if we light all the candles
and I dig old wax from the menorah until it’ll fit
the next blue one from the box. We still try
to catch the wicks in time with the prayer
catch the wax drips on the tin foil covered cutting board
we still stretch the amen out to support the last flame.
INSTANT NOODLES 