Tuesday, May 9, 2017

27 toward the Omer

yesod shebnetzach

One hand of the man who when he asked if he could join me on the bench I said please plants next to my hip then retreats,

chastened. The other breaks off a leafing twig as he walks away around the corner. My other hand brushes a red ant off my leg. I try

to listen to myself but there is too much trying, or maybe listening is not what I need, or maybe I'm past that. The man who lives

by selling tells me I looked scared before sitting with him in his shop and I say I had not wanted to buy anything. He invites me

return, whenever, and I have forgotten how to say Inshallah so I say if I don't come back it's not that I didn't want to. I ask

if he shakes hands. I take a picture of his intersection to remember then walk on, hello, with peace, need to get to the wall, remember him

nine years ago saying another probably pursued me cause I was pretty but not so pretty that I'd be used to the attention so I'd be flattered,

an easier target shall we say and I say wow okay now I know the what to heal in myself today at the wall the wall says

am I not the luckiest I get to be with everyone by being between them though sometimes it seems they're trying to see right through me the

pigeons say remember the time we brought you a leafing twig and you realized there was more life than you and you grew drink were you laughing

or crying the wall says all this crumpled paper makes it hard for anything to come out of me anymore what if I want to crumble pray

dew softens it I say do I touch you or push you how can my hands be light enough how can hands be more for giving

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