Pre-Pesach poem 5781: Constriction

The hammock stretches under me as I shift position
and a diamond imprints into the skin of my left arm.

My right hand goes to pass something to my left hand
and finds it is no longer connected—when did that happen?

The butterfly lands again on the stalk—it always does—
but I must never have envisioned where grass meets ground.

Now, I grow the forest lush on my back. I make it teem with life
connected to mine. The bleakness opens ahead, unthreatening

once I know it’s there, and where it is. I will walk in.
If others follow, so be it. But I cannot afford to wait,

and the green-gold waves simply won’t. We have a deal,
you see: They will split, after I enter, before I part.

You belong here, the dog says as it eats my bones.
I say You too, collect myself and run away.