The first year, I grated potatoes, chopped onions
& watched. The second year, I fed all but the eggs

into the machine & said I"ll do the latkes & did,
my pile of crisp delights borne to the feast by the wife

who baffled me, our books closed, banter hushed,
money useless in the apartment — house , my in-laws called it,

new-wave thump at one end, ganja reek at the other —
in which she"d knelt to tell the no one who listened

no more no no more no a three-year-old mouthing
the essential prayer. The uncle made rich by a song

stacked three & dug in, talking critics & Koch —
everyone crunching now, slathering applesauce, slurping tea —

talking Rabin & Mehitabel, radio & Durrell,
how a song is a poem or it isn"t a song

& vice-versa. Done, he pointed a greasy finger
at me, said You can"t be a goy. You — I say it

for all to hear — are an honorary Jew!
which, impossible dream, my latkes lived up to

for five more years. Then the wailing.
Then the dust.