Dybbuk

I door-to-door canvassed for the oldest public media station in a neighborhood
composed of Orthodox Jews. I knocked, they opened the doors, and informed me they

didn’t have a television. I would then leave. On the doorframes were mezuzahs
cased in plastic, stained glass fragments pink and blue, the flesh of clay. Beautiful little

prayers. The yards of the orthodox were littered with action figures and toddler
mechanica. The toys were quiet outside during the clinging pea soup dinners,

and I watched quietly too, my eyes not chipped or made of plastic.