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Duffy

“Duffy?” The rabbi touches his shoulder. “It’s getting late.”

Duffy’s kneeling. His lips are moving.

“We don’t really do vigils?” says the rabbi. “I know you need to grieve for Saul in your own way, but it’s…” Duffy hasn’t looked up. The rabbi sighs. “Hit the lights when you leave, okay?”

And Duffy is fighting the demons of orthodoxy, of their refusal to believe. His prayers are bursts of light and force against them; he is burning, burning. The time to save his lover’s soul is so short.

This aye night, he whispers, this aye night, fire and fleet and candlelight.

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