Blessed memory

with love for Robin M. Weintraub z"l

I sip my lukewarm yellow mug of grief tea,
wonder, should I microwave it up again?
Got cold so quick and this cup is

gone, rather, this cup’s worth, at least,
the hawthorne berries, tulsi, oatstraw, mint—
there’s maybe one more evening in the fridge

I’ll find I’ll know the right time to drink it
and God knows there’s always more to steep

My waves of you peak softer, further apart,
like birthing in reverse—no—like ripples
making their way, unlost, infusing deep

49 toward the Omer

What day! What a flower on the table! What two dresses in the bag, two dresses in the bag! What dream to have rest and then excitement! How many library books to carry inside! How many quiches to make! And we wait! And we count! And we stop waiting.

48 toward the Omer

yesod shebmalkhut

The learning is coming, it is not here yet. Have to breathe out before we breathe in. Have to close eyes before opening them. Have to cry out before the silence comes, before the answers come, before the peace comes. Have to say no before the yes comes.

47 toward the Omer

hod shebmalkhut

I feel the number of yesterdays I could go back to. What about today? The image returns—a butterfly relanding on a stalk, the joy of realizing not the was gone but that I find again. Control mastery theory, my friend says. You’ll cry when you’re safe.

46 toward the Omer

netzach shebmalkhut

How not to be late and not leave early—I just need occasional overlaps, time pleats, do-si-dos, retrogrades, rock steps—and why couldn’t ambivalence, here and there, be accepted like electrons that do nothing wrong in defying our previously held assumptions of what constitutes motion, location?

45 toward the Omer

tiferet shebmalkhut

What am I seeking not to be present for when I don’t write poems? The sense of should have? That I will not catch up? That they will not be adequate? That the words will not come? That I am too powerful? That you are?

44 toward the Omer

gevurah shebmalkhut

Tax return checks photographed, submitted. Running shorts, then linen pants. An email received: permission granted for a weekend in Philadelphia. Hair complimented, fingered, in the teachers’ workroom. Lamb’s ear in the garden across the street from her house. Tomato soup with beet juice swirling.

43 toward the Omer

chesed shebmalkhut

Three days ago, I struggled to have the car door open and the car light off at the same time so the moth had some chance of flying out to live overnight, if it was the type of moth that would do so,

and today, there is no one person on the dance floor whom I am drawn to as powerfully as we were drawn to walk yesterday to those trees whose orange flowers were visible across the entire park, and that is fine by me.

42 toward the Omer #2

malkhut shebyesod

This bird with the broken wing—how can we pass it by as it flutters and rolls across the sidewalk, but what are we doing by stopping? Things die, says Sam, whose house we are outside of, before carrying it to grass.

42 toward the Omer

malkut shebyesod

Touch this plant, they say, and I do. Rubbery, they say. It is, I say. It’s been weird to touch things, I say, soft things, fuzzy things—there’s something about it I haven’t been grasping, this thing where my hands are me.

41 toward the Omer

yesod shebyesod

My office door is open and people stop in in, filling the gap left behind by the ending of the second book in a trilogy where there’s a new main character for the third so I’ve detached and come here again,

here, where they are. Where have you been? they do not say. Where I would be recognized, perhaps, I do not say. Let’s find it for you here, they do not say. Firm foundation, no appointment necessary, God does not say.

40 toward the Omer

hod shebyesod

I show up to my therapist’s office and sit in the waiting room, seeing that his door is closed, which maybe is what I would see more often if I ever arrived on time aside from today and if I

were not his first appointment on Thursdays. A door opens. Another therapist walks down the hallway, is confused, asks who I am waiting for, says that he’s away this week. Right, I say, knowing this as I used to know,

and knowing I’ve been not there myself before, and I’m already in my exercise clothes and can put them to use. I jog around my block once, pass about five adults and twelve toddlers on their own stroll, waving hello,

waving goodbye, and my knee is hurting, so I go inside and dance and shower and pack the trash and recycling into my car and head on out again. Whose door have you sat outside of? Whom have you found

outside of someone else’s? Whom have you left, returned to, doing better without you? There is no without you, God says. Just as there is no without him, now that you’ve known him. Just as there is no without me.

39 toward the Omer

netzach shebyesod

I carry tefillin wrapped and wrapped in my backpack from home to work to home to work, don’t take them out. But see, God, your precepts are always with me. Right where we—unbetrothed?—can almost touch each other.

38 toward the Omer

tiferet shebyesod

If yesterday I had said strength rather than boundaries, what different balance would I find today? An unmomented moment waits for another time, knowing that, to not die, it—must? Crochet: looping into the past from the future—

37 toward the Omer

37 toward the Omer
gevurah shebyesod

You would never know
that I sit here looking
for a minute at the door
that has just closed behind you—

but there it is.

There it is, and
in this—forgive me—
the door is open—

36 toward the Omer

chesed shebyesod

Baltimore, day 3: I hurry alone through the Separation so the plumes of smoke do not set off the detectors before dissipating. Afterward, from bed, I watch lightning and thunder play out swift connection, procrastinated impact.

35 toward the Omer

malkhut shebhod

Baltimore, day 2 (Shabbat): four generations at a meal, if you include dog children; a right elbow starting to twinge from the final flick of each cornhole toss; peonies tall and falling, each with its own smell

34 toward the Omer

yesod shebhod

Baltimore: two types of okra in my parents’ garden; parmesan-sprinkled roasted asparagus; Wilbur gobbling down Pippi’s food before I manage to lift the bowl up to the counter saying “I can’t, I can’t!”

33 toward the Omer

hod shebhod

I’ve written a poem, I say, but I don’t like it. Words are symbols, right? God says. Yeah, I say. Then poems are placeholders, God says. Just replace this placeholder with another tomorrow.

It doesn’t quite work like that, I say. Of course it doesn’t, God says. Some placeholders are irreplaceholderable. You’re irreplaceholderable, I say. Why thanks, God says. You’re irreplaceholderable too. Now go to bed.

32 toward the Omer

netzach shebhod

I read outside in the morning and come home from work just the usual amount of tired. My love makes rhubarb, buys ice cream. Our household of four meets to great fanfare.

31 toward the Omer

tiferet shebhod

My supervisor tells me she sees as if Molly is sitting next to Tired Molly. I wish I didn’t have to be saved, I tell her, but it still feels good.

30 toward the Omer

gevurah shebhod

God, I say, what do I do when I don’t remember? Remember something else, God says. Oh right, I say. I have almost thirty years of rememberies by this point.

29 toward the Omer

chesed shebhod

What a perplexed poem, I say. Yeah, God says. I don’t know that I agree with it, I say. Me neither, God says. Well, today’s another day, I say.

Is that where you’re gonna leave it? God says. What? I say. Is today just going to be the day that isn’t yesterday? God says. Well, I say, today

is actually already four days ago. Right, God says, we’re somehow in both of those. You know, it can be a gift, I say, to give it your all

and still find something lacking. Depends if you would rather find comfort in things turning out okay or in being blameless, God says. You’ve got me caught, I say.

28 toward the Omer

malkhut shebnetzach

When you walked through the door—the happiness that overtook me, just as potent as years ago—and when I thought you had left without saying goodbye, well,

but you hadn’t. In any case, what do we owe the people who love us? To turn their love back to them, God says, wrap them in tight,

sing them the lullaby of their own love song. Owe them? I say. What do you want? God says. To be met, I say. Somehow, to be met.

27 toward the Omer

yesod shebnetzach

Leo, how old were we, seven?
When my parents were over at Uncle Milt’s and Aunt Ellen’s—
maybe your parent, parents, were over there too—and we

sat next door at my house, outside, in back, on the
little cement ledge, far enough away not to hear
the sound of conversations, of crabs cracking—

and we saw the stars above us in the dark,
pointed them out to each other, pointed some
other things out too—what were they, Leo, those

words come from us like stars ready to guide,
dreams of the universe, of God, if I remember true,
cushioned by silence and wind and night sky—

and who were you, Leo, whom I haven’t seen since,
to whom all sacred moments seem to trace back,
who started all my memories of evening love,

whose quiet presence each quiet lover becomes?

What do you do today, Leo?

Would I be proud of you?

Do we need to long to feel alive?

26 toward the Omer

hod shebnetzach

What makes me almost cry this week: remembering the death of the Crocodile Hunter; realizing that this kid playing basketball here looks like you; coming back

after a month and a half to George, whom I love, and saying it; kindergartners napping on pads in their classroom, splayed limbs, no blankets, safe.

25 toward the Omer

netzach shebnetzach

My left palm from wrist to pinky has something it wants to squeeze or shake out. I walk from car to crossroads, this time happy.

I start walking home then return, start walking, return. Life being a circle, God says, means each moment is a turning point. I walk home.

24 toward the Omer

tiferet shebnetzach

I feel again into the trust that holds firm beneath my feet and all around—only then do I step onto the porch stairs.

23 toward the Omer

gevurah shebnetzach

Airport, bar closed, flight delayed, poems unwritten, I read a New York Times wedding announcement until it is time to board the plane.

22 toward the Omer

chesed shebnetzach

A doctor, Jen’s mother, and a nurse, her brother’s girlfriend, remove the splinter, and my hand heals to just be hand again.

21 toward the Omer

malkhut shebtiferet

Here is where we would meet, I say, but I cannot let you give me anything. HEALING IS BRAVE, the button

on my backpack says. But how, I say, can I heal from my fear of annihilation without being annihilated or annihilating?

I’ll be okay, my child says. I’m not actually worried about you, I say. I know, they say, with that look

that they will give me sometimes. I’ll be okay, God says. Really? I say. Yeah, God says. I can’t not be.

20 toward the Omer

yesod shebtiferet

Today’s assignment: try to come up with anything else as satisfying to say as Dayton, dandelions, and dental insurance decisions.

Come on, God says. Weren’t you thinking about it being great that I am One so you can be many?

19 toward the Omer

hod shebtiferet

Today I return to that old question—What did I lose by not letting myself get stung by jellyfish

when I was still young? Nothing you can’t find now, God says, though it might take more than piss

to treat the side effects of living. Fine, I say. Bring it. I’m not bringing you anything, God says.

I lift my eyes and look, and behold, the water is all around me, right where it’s always been.

18 toward the Omer

netzach shebtiferet

To life, we say. And not to death, I say, saying what maybe shouldn’t have to be said.

17 toward the Omer

tiferet shebtiferet


Balancing balance--like moderating within moderation? Which piece to unsettle so as to allow for falling forward?
And from where will the next foot come walking? That unsettled piece, God says. Maybe, I say.

16 toward the Omer

gevurah shebtiferet

A day of warmth, of paperwork, of tired, of accidental Daniel time, of only daydreamed cupcakes

15 toward the Omer

chesed shebtiferet

Another chance to find out what I won’t do to avoid the face of rejection
and to ashamedly, gratefully, marvel at those who instead choose to risk that of mine!

14 toward the Omer

malkhut shebgevurah

And just like that, my hand’s part chair, the splinter surely lodged in there

13 toward the Omer

yesod shebgevurah

Just like that, more than half the magnolia petals are on the ground
and my love hands me something lovely when I have forgotten to expect,
or remember, or recognize, or how to internalize, love, and outside the bakery
I stand, Hungry Ghost challah in hand, watch small suspended mirrors reflect sky

12 toward the Omer

hod shebgevurah

When future absence proves past presence, and Titos the cat turns four,
and hidden under replanted African violet leaves new leaves grow, precious, unexpected

11 toward the Omer

netzach shebgevurah

How often have I stood at these crossroads, each time different?

10 toward the Omer

tiferet shebgevurah

I take the full trash bags out to the porch
where they will sit until tomorrow morning’s trip to the
transfer station as I already am late for leaving home
to get to the school on time for the students—
Rabbi Tarfon, I’ve gotta say, it actually is on me
to do my chore, but for today, I call enough

9 toward the Omer

yahrzeit of Sylvia Greenfield Moses, z"l
gevurah shebgevurah

I come into the office to find that someone
has taped a bluebird onto the upper right corner
of the light brown windowframe I painted last week
and put in front of a construction paper view,
leave the office to find again a darkening sky

8 toward the Omer

chesed shebgevurah

The sunflowers who know when to break free
of waiting for return to come from where
the leaving one dipped below the long horizon,
know when to start with their own returning
to where they will be ready, as night
turns to day, to take light in anew--
have they ever known a moment like this?

7 toward the Omer

malkhut shebchesed

How lucky I am to have stood
long enough in the hallway at shul
after having biked back to maybe meet
with people who would want to talk--
looking at the English and Hebrew names
on the yahrzeit board--for her to
come out of the bathroom, this poet
who stops the part of our walk
where we're going in the same direction
to exclaim over the yellow daffodils rambunctious
through cracks in the asphalt and concrete,
who sees a stranded leaf, picks it up,
says she thinks of them as orphans,
returns it to what could be home

6 toward the Omer

yesod shebchesed

Another couch, me again, asking How
do you reach outside of yourself
and leave anything left? You learned
years ago, God says, didn't you?
It's turtles all the way down.
Come on, God, I say. Please.
Silence, then God says, All right.
The first turtle knows that she,
no matter what, is not bad.

5 toward the Omer

hod shebchesed

The clock I look at
and the clock he sees
as we sit on couch
and chair are a fraction
out of sync—secondhands following
one another just unharmoniously enough
to sound the room’s heartbeat—

4 toward the Omer

netzach shebchesed

I may not want
the different kind of

always that comes when
words come for the

that which has been
kept so tender by

the that of me
that holds on to
the that of you

with no words just
the outline of your

face, your hand, your
smile, one image, fragile,

soft as staghorn sumac

3 toward the Omer

tiferet shebchesed

how did I
trap myself into
feeling trapped by

myself my arms
push against the

door frame til
God says now

see what happens
when you take
one step forward

2 toward the Omer

gevurah shebchesed

driving past
the exit

1 toward the Omer

chesed shebchesed

my
mother
explains:
buttercups
by
morning
fill
again

my
mother,
the
buttercup

iea

it took til i was sick
and alone to get myself
to sit, do no more than listen
so when you told me to let go
there was only what was left
to let go of and in its stead—
as when river recognizes rain

Cathected

When I roll my soul out to measure the distance to you and it finds out how far
and reels back inside of me and the last bit reenters with that thunk
it hits my stomach like six feet of bubble tape swallowed