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