11 toward the Omer

netzach shebgevurah

The Redwoods—the always living Sequoia—the only names I know
name my settler self too, bring me only ever as close

as these plank paths do—(hush, child—we’ll come to you)

10 toward the Omer

tiferet shebgevurah

I hold memories in my hands like fallen magnolia petals

9 toward the Omer

gevurah shebgevurah

in continued memory of Sylvia Greenfield Moses, zichrona livracha

I didn’t expect legs would fall asleep in heaven,

or that I would have to catch myself leaving

and encourage myself to return, but the rest is

just about how I’d imagined the place to be—

sitting silent here together, facing away, trusting, being trusted.

I watch the next breath of my life begin

with no intention of making it so, watch it

until it goes. I stand when it’s time to,

stumble as the blood rushes along its merry way.

Back upstairs, I blessedly end up in front of

no statues, bow, put toes, oops, on the fingers

of the man behind me, who, when we rise

and turn again, becomes the man on my left

who gives me the book I need already opened

to the right page. Today, we remember our ancestors.

Today, the five aspects of human existence are empty,

nothing is born, nothing dies. Today, I dust mop

the main hallway—gone, gone over—and get released—

8 toward the Omer

chesed shebgevurah

San Francisco. The trees are two weeks ahead

of ours, though they are also not—time’s

just different here. In the Zen Center kitchen

dear Kei introduces us to Heiko who asks

Do you practice? I later think of responding

I am practicing practicing, wonder if the two

are the same. Sure, God says, depending on

the dimensions. Oh hi, I say, my thoughts

of slope and acceleration scattering to the winds

who collect them up, hand them back over,

ever so generously tell me to start again.

7 toward the Omer

malkhut shebchesed

I don’t make it to the water

this year. Instead I’m here with you

and then you. We put words into

the surface of the depths between us,

see what rises up from the ruffles.

6 toward the Omer

yesod shebchesed

While we are decidedly not looking,

the man we had talked about

over dinner last night raises his

hands under his tallis, blesses us.

5 toward the Omer

hod shebchesed

I will have to adopt

any child born from me

if I wish my wife

to be able to also

(the petition of a married

person must be made jointly)

and, of course, vice versa

I laugh at the absurdity

but the rest of it

does make terrifying sense to

the part of my mind that’s

been shaped by, has even

come to rely on, paper

as here, with the lawyer,

a future comes clear: fishing

documents out of the car

for some other state’s cop

to show that our child

is mine and is hers

the spectre of such stops

arrived at this door where

not even uterine blood can

deter those bent on entering

oh, God, what a world,

in which we are lucky

the house on Blackberry Lane

gets twenty-four offers, sells for

more than one hundred thousand

over the half million ask

my dears share the news

that they’ve been reading (that

they’ve been living) so at

least the razor shards of fear

can be held, can be

cradled, in ever more hearts

a loved one starts collecting

menstrual cloths and cast-off rags

to make her priestly robes

we walk about our lives.

who will have a chair

when the music turns off

and who do we think

will start it up again? 

4 toward the Omer

netzach shebchesed

Six minutes left before

the sun sets on

us and those daffodils

by the basement window

of the neighboring office,

the morning’s must, risen

from the carpeted floor,

eight more unfinished notes,

breath, noise machine, birdsong

3 toward the Omer

tiferet shebchesed

With thanks to

our landlords for

telling us over

food last fall

that it works

for one partner

to be clean,

the other neat,

I see the

entryway pile I’d

agreed to dismantle,

get started while

kombucha water boils.

She asks about

the yellow slip

that I’d assumed

was not mine.

It says “Seat

Check Dest. Amtrak

Date Keep In

Sight” and, flipped

to the other

side, in script,

“Carry-by post Baltimore

on 171. Please

take back to

Baltimore. C. Iyer”

True to style,

I choose to

reuse my luck

rather than recycle

2 toward the Omer

gevurah shebchesed

Reading in

bed since

eight pm—

around midnight

downstairs the

landlords with

their friends

singing One

is HaShem—

A guest

with covid

behind a

door, still

a guest

1 toward the Omer

chesed shebchesed

she

holds

my

other

hand

Pre-Pesach poem 5783 (2023)

Leach field

The pipe that led

to the concrete bomb shelter

let the late winter air in,

arguably fallout, too,

though not the mice.

Seven decades later,

at the open house,

we watch our heads—

at least when we enter—

ask, Wine or potatoes?

Mold percolates up

through the finished floor

as Mother Nature

according to the inspector

slowly reclaims what is hers.

Outside, by the leach field,

I dream of wildflowers

for the ground

that can hold us,

can hold the most precious

and despised parts of us.

We walk away, back

to this home

where we believe

science is real

love is love

plastic is kasherable

Our ceramic dishes

will stay in the cabinet

absorbent as they are

who knows what

they would leak out

if allowed to speak

The lesson of clay—

that something so porous

can be so lasting

can break so

42-49 toward the Omer

malkhut shebyesod

I do not know exactly what was going on, but I must have been—hopefully was—present. Too present to keep a record. Yes, that would be a great spin on the situation, even if it falls short of a true accounting.

chesed shebmalkhut

The wooden bench under the two trees across the little creek in the backyard held me until there was somewhere else I was moved to be and so moved myself. Upon what shall I train my eyes if not on those budding branches?

gevurah shebmalkhut

The next thing in front of my face, and the next thing, and the next thing. Dayton. Cleveland. Toronto. The mountain is clouded. The mountain is coming. The mountain is not yet. We are made pilgrims. We are made the pilgrimage. The mountain stands

tiferet shebmalkhut

between us here in Montreal, or inside me somewhere—the base is wide, and I cannot see beyond the sudden shame of my bare shoulders. I go inside, take space on the balcony. The kids sell popcorn in the back alley, ride by on rollerskates,

netzach shebmalkhut

push each other in strollers. We make it home, air conditioner on the fritz, and it’s time to go. Doctor, dentist, Shabbat, Shavuot, not that I’m looking backward or anything. Oh Orpheus, oh Idit—if only we could let what has been die in its time

hod shebmalkhut

and therefore live, and keep living ourselves. The plants did not wait for our return to start growing. I unpack the car, see some clients, prepare for marriage. Quiches go into the oven, come out of the oven. Compostable plates arrive. Light blue pants. Too many vests. 

yesod shebmalkhut

I stumble over my untied shoes. Eurydice, city of S’dom—would you be okay if we didn’t look back? Looking is touching, God says. I didn’t think you’d show up with me this late in the game, I say. I was, God says. I am. I will be.

malkhut shebmalkhut

Well, then, I say, let’s get going. I’ll stay here, God says, and see you there. Can I look back? I say. Wherever you look, God says, is forward. Choose yours carefully. I will, I say. I tie my laces, straighten up, and walk, present at last, accounted for.