Ruined Mezuzah

Angled on the top-right of the doorjamb
buried by sloppy painters.
Decades of glossy ivory, green,
and white layers obscure the sacred
metal tchotchke, a shapeless
salted slug, all but melted away.

Resin-caked Shaddai
an almost indecipherable moniker
smooth and slippery looking
hides 22 lines of rolled-up
neglected parchment
that would crumble at my touch.

An unassuming obtrusion
dirty from city soot
instead of faithful hands.
Worn down in the middle
like a saddleback
by former observant tenants.

Every day great great-grandfather
devoutly brushed the entryway
lifting his calloused fingers
to the vessel like a somatic reflex.
He paused for prayer, no matter what burden
he carried or grace he gave up.

Now his Upper West Side building
has tobacco-stained corridors
that lacquer-over generations of families,
relics of a religion dying.
Rituals lost, buried animal skin
no longer giving blessings.

We have no threshold
between the world and home.
Lulled into pandemic zoom calls
and distanced holidays.
Where my ancestors once kept
sanctity, family, and mitzvahs inside.

A rabbit foot affixed to the doorframe
613 Torah commandments attached,
not one of them an obligation for me
and no one remembers them anyway.