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My twisted
heart craves
to feel it
wrung out,
an old shmatah
grey with age
emptied of the plump
pink berries of innocence
that drip with desire and
with life.
My fingertips
long for the prick of
grit,
tiny pebbles of dirt
heaps of rubble and
hardened clay
dark and dry.
I’d hoped to touch the pleasure of
sharp rigid bruising
bits      piercing
my flimsy
skin.
Instead, like a closed cardboard box with a slit up the back
the grit spewed out, cascading onto
the polished dining table and
ricochets into the weave
of the Persian carpet.
Hordes of piling mounds
burying my
plans, my hopes,
my dreams.
I dream instead of grit
clogging my throat
I gurgle rather than
scream.
When I open my mouth no
sound comes out only
fragments of
shrieking
grit.
*The grief in this poem refers to Tisha B’AvThe holiday on which the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem is commemorated through fasting and prayers. and the anniversary Oct. 7th
