May Your Names Be Written
By Robert Cooperman

"May your names be written
in the Book of Life,"
the rabbi blesses the congregation,
to end the Yom Kippur service.
You ride home, bathed
in the silence of prayers
hoped for, the sun a giant,
blinding ball.

Out of the rage
of God's tempering,
a car swerves into you;
your car spins
as if on a frozen lake,
horns trumpet warnings,
music far less tuneless
than even the shofar
bleating a conclusion
to solemn fasting and prayer.

The other driver is running
toward you as fast as her legs--
still shaky from the collision--
can carry her:

"I'm so sorry!" she cries,
tries to open the door
though it's crashed shut.
You blink--the sun
ferocious as an angry idol--

and assure her you're fine,
just shaken up, wobbly,
the Lord perhaps unsure
if he had indeed inscribed you
safely into His Book of Names.