Hell no, don't give me your umbrella, or your coat, not your trains that run on schedule or your buses that lurch and groan, not your cars neither and the rules of the road.
I've got me, and that's enough until I get there.
for
the splendor.
the receiving.
the taste of aleph-beis on my tongue.
the tambourine beating in my blood.
There is a little whisper within you. It speaks discreetly, yet yearns to be heard.
Laughter, tears, and longing. On both sides of the mechitza.
But who are you? What brings you here? Are you not one of the litigants? Who are you to judge the worthiness of a soul?
A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
It’s always too late to make peace after the war begins.
Hey. It’s 4:43 AM in Jerusalem. I just woke up crying, from the sweetest/saddest dream. I was holding you....
