Shabbos, When Healing Comes

Friday night the shtetl shul prays silent:
stars - Shalom Aleichem - welcome angels -
peace descends in waves of words and candlelight;
after prayer the men linger in hats 
and formal coats and talk of crops and croup,
of news and nu, vos macht du - how are you -
the gentle time before the journey home.
Unnoticed slips a not-yet-man, a boy,
a student of the day, to the stand
where the leader sings and in loud self-discourse
declares his name to the wall, or heaven -
his voice thunder trembles through the talk,
a lilt off-key a warning note the soul’s
askew. Held-breath we listen to the rave,
a mind in quiet rage against itself,
declares the Shoah of its soul in words
that shock the Shabbos in us all - inside
‘my struggle’ turned around. He ends as if
in prayer, head bowed, descends, raven-rimmed eyes
turn, search, expecting nought, or all, a plea 
perhaps. In echo of the still small voice
the rabbi says ‘ok.’ The not-yet-man
with thanks, deflates, and prattles through kiddush,
a Sabbath band-aid on his tortured mind.