The Snip
'That was Dad, he says if the circumcision
doesn't attract you, then arrive late,
you'll be just as welcome.'
I'd been to the snipping, in hospital,
of a previous nephew, and felt faint,
leaning against the doorway,
while a burly rabbi did the job
and the men of the clan
hovered approving, but also
a little tense as knives have been known
to slip.
Besides, I'd been snipped as a baby myself,
though a Gentile, in my Auckland hospital,
and never missed my foreskin,
indeed inclined to believe the talk
about hygiene, lately renewed.
And this one is to be at home,
with a feast waiting for after the snip.
But in the park, one of the regular dog ladies,
a retired nurse, when I tell her
what's on next Monday, flares up:
'It's barbaric. At least let
the poor baby have an anaesthetic!
But they won't, it's not tradition!
More likely he'll use his teeth!
My family in Cape Town was Jewish.'
I say I'll pass on what she says.
'Do! It's what we're here for -
on this earth - to help one another,
if we can.' O Ricky, my new nephew,
they'd smile at me, I know,
and get on with the snipping.
Better just to arrive late.
4.10 pm Wednesday 20 December 2006
Max Richards
Doncaster, Vic, Australia
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