The Kippah

I’m considering

converting to

Judaism. Only so

I can don a yamaka.

My bald spot’s

like a cancer—

one of embarrassment.

I should be in a

fucking monastery

baking bread. But those are the

Franciscans. Watch it

spread & conquer

every inch upon my

head. Like the blob—

goddamn Slavic genetics.

Some idiot on

Seinfeld

converted for the food.

I mean sure, a knish

is nothing to sneer.

I won’t even mention

circumcision. That’s not the

biggest problem, believe-

it-or-not:

Today in the Jewish

calendar, it’s 5786.

The Holocaust

occurred this very

century. How can I revel to

the Fiddler on the Roof?

How can I be glib,

telling Mrs. Blonsky

her matzah ball soup's

worth dying for? That my

teeth have all their fillings,

holding back my smile

when the Rabbi utters

cheese? Kosher, of course.

I’m not an infidel.

I’ll refuse to

utter YHWH’s

sacred name. Be grateful

that I’m chosen.

A little late to

the game, I must

confess—but an adopted

son of Moses nonetheless.

Cecille B. DeMille

has told my story. The coloured

eggs & rabbit? I don’t need

a brood of brats,

gallivanting through my

yard like little shits.

I’ll graduate to a Shtreimel

one of these days, thumb my

nose at skinheads itching to

hand me a can of whoop-ass:

on the inner-city

bus, as the Sabbath has

dawned & risen with the moon,

their tattooed fists

burning in Aryan rage,

their 2025 a distant

past, sunken with the

sun

and the squeals from

a drunken cantor;

some curious kind of

mensch, still awaiting his

pledged messiah.

Andreas Gripp

October 17, 2025

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