Rosh Hashanah.
One hundred agonizing blasts
of the shofar.
WHERE was my family?
My husband, my boys?
They should be here,
beside me,
to hear the shofar.
Pop, pop, pop
the balloons of hot-air agreements
on raising children
explode, one by one.
Red brick mirrors
growing anger
as I walk home.
At home, my voice blares
as loudly as the shofar,
as agonizingly as the shofar—
to those in the blast radius.
I had not listened.
For whom did the shofar call?
The shofar called for me.
