A Prayer For My Son

Let my first son
be named Anoch
for his mother’s grandfather.
Let me be Chinese and burn incense
so that this old Jewish man’s spirit
may rise lightly from Shamayim
and find his way
to Buddhist reincarnation
in the body of my boy
so I can learn
what he did not live
to teach me.

May he recall
his grandfather’s stomach
stripped Great Depression bare
so he will always appreciate
the food on his plate.
May he savor every bite.

May he inherit
his grandfather’s free spirit;
may he slurp spaghetti
exactly when the uptight
would resent it the most.
May he never fear
the opinions of others.
May he be an old soul
in a young body.

May he spend every Passover
living in a world without slaves
without immigrants defined as illegal
without wanderers or refugees.
May he visit a peaceful Israel.
May he flirt with Palestinian girls in Gaza.
May he speak truth in Tianamen Square.
May he walk the streets of Tehran without fear.

May he carry his Jewish-Chinese blood
in a straight spined body,
may he wear a yarmulke
and eat lo mein on Christmas,
may he call his mixed heritage
his parents’ greatest gift.

May he be bar mitvahed.
May he get straight As,
but never be as arrogant
as his poet father.
May he rebel.
May he tell me
to go fuck myself
when I’m wrong.

Let him be named Anoch
for the eldest son of Cain;
may he outlive all his father’s mistakes,
rearranging the errors
of previous generations
into a righteous order.
May he complete everything I could not.