i come to the water
with everything still on me
the nightclub stamp
the salt of another man’s mouth
a prayer i learned before shame
learned my name
my grandmother would have called this
a different kind of hunger
my rabbi might call it
complicated
i call it mine
outside the world keeps asking
which part of me i plan to apologize for first
the jew
with his stubborn candle
the queer
with his unclean hands
the man
who has knelt in bathrooms
and still knows how to bless bread
but tonight
i lower myself slowly
not to be forgiven
not to be remade
but because water remembers
what people try to edit
it takes me whole
skin of grief
hips of inheritance
tongue bright with men
and mourning
i say the blessing
like a match struck in a locked room
barukh atah adonai
who made my body
a disputed text
and still
called it good
when i rise
nothing has left me
that is the miracle
i am not clean
because i have been emptied
i am clean
because i am full
because desire stayed
because grief stayed
because the old songs
climbed back into my mouth
wearing leather
wearing lipstick
wearing my father’s tallit
like a dare
