17 toward the Omer

tiferet shebtiferet

And there was evening, and there was morning: a new period. I look ahead: wedding day, luteal—

honeymoon, follicular. Gotta lose one to win the other, I guess. And today? How about today? Well,

four intakes bookending Saturday Night Live, leftovers, and popcorn. I couldn’t sleep last night—that chocolate cookie—

until I could, and when I did, I dreamed of helping a squid back into the ocean.

That’s seventeen words, I say. It is, God says. Must be done, I say. Sure, God says,

or you could go on. What would it take to tip the balance? Ask the Supreme Court,

I say. Or rather, don’t. God says, Didn’t I tell you—everything in moderation except for moderates?

Is that how that line goes? I say. Depends on who’s asking, God says, and for what.