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.
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