13 toward the Omer

yesod shebgevurah

The cat is waiting to come in, and I say, Are you sure? 

12 toward the Omer

hod shebgevurah

I head out back to write either progress notes or a poem—

might as well be under the sun—but here are three people

who invite me over, and I go sit with them, my computer

upside-down in my lap. As we talk about a holy without acquisition,

I wonder, What is the next choice I don’t know I’ll have?

11 toward the Omer

netzach shebgevurah

The goats next door run to the fence to greet me

in my pajamas and the six apple cores in this bowl.

Some things are hard to chew, but it seems to depend

in part on how they are oriented when you eat them,

or, rather, on how you orient yourself to them, though sometimes

there’s a fence restricting movement and you don’t have any choice

over the method, let alone the matter. My bike is grimy

but functional. I go get groceries, go home, go back again

for the rest of the load, pass the same construction crew.

Coasting downhill, I watch the wheels meet the road and turn—

so many circles proving equal to a line without an end.

10 toward the Omer

I don’t know from Colorado spiders, but this large one

that’s been at the bottom of the bathtub some hours

can’t bite me anyway through a plastic cup or cardstock.

It skitters around, unaware, I think, that these walls lead

to where it wants to be. My housemate slides open

the back screen door for our processional to the grass.

I release it, hope, belatedly, that the birds won’t notice.

9 toward the Omer

in continued memory of Sylvia Greenfield Moses, zichrona livracha

gevurah shebgevurah

A full day, and the hands come out empty,

but palms up, open, is the start of willingness,

Linehan teaches in the name of Thich Nhat Hanh.

The room’s four walls allow me to uncurl myself

from my willfulness, to explore what might be here

if something else is taking care of the holding.

A man is hungry. I buy him soup, hide

the cookie I buy for myself in my coat

so he won’t see it when I walk out

of the deli, forget about it until I unzip

my left chest pocket to put my mask away.

I don’t even think to sit and eat together.

Fists, God says, are made to create a connection

and a separation at the same time. Oh, I say,

is that why you outstretched your fingers in Egypt?

Anything I touch, God says, I must feel too.

8 toward the Omer

chesed shebgevurah

The tarot card asks: Is the High Priestess

calling you to account, or are you she?

I fear the answer, do not want it

watching me as I go about my days,

and yet. What is the use in hiding

from what exists in both seen and unseen,

who knows all the places I could run?

I break away from the fabric of life

and there’s not even the sound of tearing—

as soon as I turn my back there’s

nothing to see or hear but my howls

gaudily draped in the shrouds of what isn’t.

Enough of this. There is no more time

than what there is, and that too short.

The owl looks out from over our bed

and gives no hints—but I need none.

7 toward the Omer

malkhut shebchesed

Coming to a new way takes time

but happens—and how good it is

to loosen the “I” and find “let’s”!

6 toward the Omer

yesod shebchesed

On a day of crossing through,

I’ll entrust my soul to you.

For now, we lay the foundation,

solid in the ground, simple, sweet.

We take a breath. I run

to the lake where a toddler,

small reed raft in one hand,

plays in the shallows, her father

skipping stones that are too round,

her mom watching. I look out,

feel into what it would take

to get to the other side.

5 toward the Omer

hod shebchesed

I call through the window
to my housemate as he
tunes his guitar in the
kirtan circle in the backyard,

Is it okay to join
you all if I finish
what I’m doing in time?
It’s okay if it’s private…

You just need to pull
up a chair, one says.
With a spirit of open-mindedness,
another one adds. I nod,

say of course, slide shut
the window, and start writing.
What changes when a household
is created? When will the

credit card company get it
that I can be elsewhere
and here all at once?
Why shouldn’t I look like

a waiter at my wedding?
Is this just the sound
of a red-winged blackbird or
also the sound of another?

Would you come hear it?
How can my ears stop
ringing, the hairs unstick from
the positions they have taken?

Whose choices do I make?
I bite my tongue again,
softer this time, feel love
for my jaw, which is

newly loose, free to move,
and obviously still learning its
way through the many options.
Oh, the limits of knowledge

on this day, the excitement

on this day, the blessing

of our big messy body

singing out of tune—together!—

on this very blessed day.

4 toward the Omer

netzach shebchesed

I tell my brother

about my backlog of

notes, agree there is

no such thing, though

with only one part

to my stomach it’s

easy to forget how

good it tastes to

see past as future,

to make regrets—or

is it myself?—something

“shiny and new, like

a virgin, touched for

the very first time”

The sounds of wind,

of cars, of birds,

of the screen door

rolling back and forth

on its track, surely,

they must be enough

to move me along.

Along with my breath,

which perhaps gives the

most true linear reinforcement.

I jog home with

oranges in my hands,

avocados in my purse,

a friend in Washington.

3 toward the Omer

tiferet shebchesed

Seventy-five degrees outside:
willow leaves unfurling
upward, trees unweeping,

the water-on-pebbles sound
of brown-headed cowbirds,

black-billed magpies freed
from their mythologies
by being uncountable

2 toward the Omer

gevurah shebchesed

The waves
would continue
forming and
going past,
but this
one I
will ride
to shore—
not only
since I
won’t last
forever—and
not just
to live—

1 toward the Omer

chesed shebchesed

No

baby

Moses

between

coals

and

glory,

I

bite

my

tongue

eating

the

maror

charoset

sandwich

My

love

asks

if

I’m

okay,

hears

the

silent

answer,

comes

with

me

to

look

where

I

can’t

until

I

can

Pre-Pesach poem 5782: Biur

The little flags beyond the stream

show, he says, where they think

it all started.

Areas of interest.

God, do I make a blessing

over the smell of burned trees?

The faded Holi colors

of airdropped retardant

mark these bushes saved—

the greenest grass,

past the winter straw,

is where only new remains.

Spring, like liberation,

like fire, begins slow,

and then it comes fast,

if it catches, if the winds blow.

Gotta have our bags packed.

I feed the last girl scout cookies

to the goats, cut my hair on the porch.