I want sticky sweet honey suckle
cotton mouth. I want that honey
so thick it feels like I swallowed
a hive. Busy bees regurgitating
nectar, altering my chemical properties
so that I am the comb:
hexagonal chambers
of golden sticky liquid filling
every saccharine orifice so that I cannot
even call out the blessings
of a new year because I am so full.
So full of antioxidants that I can not
feel the passing of time. And how?
How can we bless a new year
when we are still trapped
in the old one where it is
forever Supernovas,
forever October
forever the evaporated clouds
of walled desert shelter
and our hollowed chests have
been ringing all this time
with whispers of viduy,
hauntings of Untaneh Tokef.
So, call forth the high priest.
Sound the ram horns.
Blow the trumpets.
Stomp your feet
and strike your chests.
Together we will recite
the only prayer this New Year;
the prayer home.
