Sleep

I stretch myself
along the striped couch
and sink into sweetness
and wake three hours later
to accompany the dog
upon a curved beach
where puddles reflect
the varied colors
of the eastern sky

Wedding

Hand meets hand meets hand meets hand and I
constantly monitor each finger's straightness
to keep them from bending and clasping tight
or, G-d forbid, moving over yours
Better to sweat with the strain
than to show a hint of caring
that our hands are pressed against each other
palm to palm and feet step and glide
our bodies face inward our toes point around
At least you are next to me, not opposite
for surely then I would spend the night waiting
wanting not wanting wanting not wanting
to catch your eye. But back to our hands
I have not forgotten
Now they are parting parting parting
parting and we lift hands up and oh the joy
for we bring them to rest over shoulders
Arm meets hand meets arm meets hand
bodies ever slower, ever statelier
your hand ever so light
mine ever so conscious

8.21.2012-8.24.2012
KlezKanada Poetry Retreat

Aerial yoga

Lion's breath, she says,
tongue out. No one can see
into my sturdy blue womb,
my opaque shelter wings,
my upside-down tallis,
my reversed tarot card
hhhaaaaaa

Returning

Sitting next to my cousin
on the way back from Starbucks
with a drink in my hand
of dubious status

after passing a cyclist
who does not wear a helmet
while paused at a stop sign
the last before home

I find that I'm still
a believer in angels
and conclude in the abstract
that God exists too

for while humans could be here
without a Creator
my logic informs me
that angels would not.


Other mentions of angels

A blessed life

I just had
my third peach
of the day

Tactile love

A human
being
rejoicing
in another
’s
being

Prompt: Life is

Life is breathing on your back
with arms spread to the grass
and eyes closed with the light
of the sunset on their lids
and lips curved to the knowledge
of the well-being that leaves
you gasping for air as if
the completeness of the moment
means you must reach for
something to reach for.
And you learn to relax
into the feeling of peace
as one hardened to cold
learns to lie down
in a bath of warm water.

Rubber band

aware of a pull
sitting three chairs away
waiting to return
to a resting position
relaxed,
no movement necessary
on a bench
by the campfire

Prompt: "Dear __, what I want to tell you is"

Dear Faya,
  What I want to tell you is
    I'm sorry. I tried to call you,
but only months after I got your
number, and I fear it has changed,
even though the voice on the other
end only says     temporarily unavailable.
   You were my companion in a cafe
 in Saint Petersburg
   wearing a uniform and speaking
   quietly, haltingly
   in your second or third language
  as I sat and missed home
   and ate Greek salad
  and helped you fold napkins
  into triangles that could fan out
  in groups of thirteen
   at the centers of tables.
  I am sorry that I only took
  you to a museum once
   that I was only a brief window
  into a life outside of your poverty.
    I hope
    that you continue to enjoy
                Bollywood movies.
   I hope
    that your hair still falls
     down your back
    straight to the waist of your jeans
    if you so choose.
  I hope
    that someone brings you flowers.
  Faya,
    teach me your language
   I would like to stumble over
     the strange words
    and put a smile on your face.
  Others are listening
    but I hope that you hear
                   that somehow
     my words can cradle you
    even if my affection
   is beyond your frame of reference.
  Soon it will be time for you to sleep
  and one benefit to being
       on the other side of the world
   is that I can
                in full consciousness
          whisper to you
                   Sweet dreams
       And again, fully awake,
             welcome you to
                 the next morning.

"What makes my life my life?"

At the Seeds of Peace International Camp the past few days, I have been helping to lead a Slam Poetry special activity for six campers. We freewrite and share and even perform each other's work. Sometimes we work off of prompts; other writings are unguided. This is the rough product from one such prompt: "What makes your life your life?" Revising, perhaps, to come.


My father is colorblind.
Reds and greens blend with browns and grays
and his teacher noticed in lower school
when he drew a landscape that was particularly...artistic.

I can live with seeing differently from most people.
This means I have thoughts to contribute.
And I can live with my life being mine
because it gives the world soul another place
to store a fragment
a shard whose glimmer meets with experiences
and times of beauty and sadness.

But I fear to be alone in me
and in my life
to know the uniqueness
that keeps me apart
no matter how long I stay in the arms of someone
to whom I am dear.

I remember a time
when I danced in the street
full of other people's observations
about myself.
I danced as a joyous, glorious woman
whose main gift to the world
was happiness.

And I thought, if I am so happy,
I must not live a long life.
And that night I took some comfort
with another human being
whose presence surrounded
but did not unify with mine
and I made it be enough.