B’midbar (Numbers)
We walk toward the mountains, my beloved, b’midbar.
Our feet are worn by the sand, our heads scorched by the Sun.
I miss Egypt and you miss the Sea.
Our manna is running on empty,
But we put our faith on stories of blossoming almond flowers, sweet and bitter.
We will walk and wander
And hold each others’ hands like we mean it.
Brazen serpents will heal the stings we pick up along the way,
And at night we will lay our heads on rocks for pillows,
And the next day wonder who was in this place.
And in the end, we will arrive
You, on Mt. Horeb,
Me, on Mt. Nebo,
Shouting blessings and curses at each other.
Note: The rest followed in the following weeks/months and it was all honestly a way to really process that I needed to have the break up, but i’m glad i could coax some beauty out of the pain to end up with these poems.
B’reishit (Genesis)
Begin again,
Begin again,
When all is wet and dark again.
Was it light or darkness You made?
Did You form the light or the dark?
Did You form the light or the dark?
It’s day five and I’m doubting
It’s day six and I regret
Then it’s Shabbat, and I try to rest,
I try to choke down the doubt and regret and fear and shame
With mouthfuls of lechem min ha-aretz
And wash it down with the sticky sweet juice of pri ha-gafen.
This palace in time is an eternity,
And the walls are closing in on me.
When I finally see three stars in the sky,
I long to throw myself into the Havdalah flames,
Pass my ashes around like b’samim,
Inhale the sweet scent of what I could have been.
Please, let me begin again.
Shemot (Exodus)
And God hardened my heart against you,
I drag my heels into the sand
as you take me by the hand and lead me forward.
I light a bush on fire to hear Your Voice,
I need to talk to You, why are things like this?
But the bush just burns to ash.
But the bush just burns to ash.
How many plagues before you go?
I’m running out of ways to say it without saying it.
The sea begins to split
And the breath catches in my throat.
Why harden just my heart? Why fill his with love?
Don’t make me leave Egypt.
Don’t make me leave Egypt.
Let the water close around me instead,
Let me breathe the water in
Rather than having to step onto the other side
And look him in the eyes
And say it
Vayikra (Leviticus)
I forget who wrote these laws,
And my mother and father forget.
Sometimes I am lifted up in holiness and trembling,
The ecstasy of exaltation,
Your Light fills me in gasping, burning breaths,
Your Radiance washes away my form.
Other times I don’t know
Why I have all this blood and fat on my hands,
I forget who to stone or kill or slay.
Yet other times,
I will put Your Name as a sign on my forehead,
I will go to the altar of the night,
I will look into the flame
And sacrifice my most precious,
Tearing it asunder, opening it, unwinding it,
Undoing it.
As the smoke rises, may it be pleasing to Your Face;
May the umim thunder and the thumim whisper an answer,
May the light of the fire reflect and reverberate in all my twelve gems
Until I remember my Name.
D’varim (Deuteronomy)
I raise my arms like a bird in flight, ascend to the heavens!
We dance around each other in intertwining circles;
I learned my dance in Egypt,
And you learned yours in Canaan.
They work so well together, until they don’t.
I want to spin faster and harder, until I am a pillar of fire
Leading you in the right directions of my choosing.
The crowd claps and claps, louder and louder,
Urging us on.
Let’s tear the Temple down,
It’s only cloth, after all.
You to my right, you to my left,
I long to move forwards and backwards,
But all I see is you, you, you.
The rising din of the crowd pushes me higher and higher,
I wheel into the stars,
Among the ophanim.
I spin past Saturn, who put this heaviness in my heart,
Then finally I unwind in a burning spiral back to Earth,
Praying to return to a different scene.
But it’s the same crowd and the same you and the same me,
And all the emotions, the joys and disappointments spin away,
And all I’m left with are these d’varim.
