*
*
Curled in a yellowed egg
for uncounted seasons
a soul presses sticky walls
bows to each sunrise
faint glow through shell
bent into a pretzel
braided arms to legs
air bubble used up
weak weathered wings
the last breath
crack in the sky
fresh spearmint wind
of life remaining
–Mary McCue
*
*
The stranger who sleeps next to me
looks like an older version
of the man I married 20 years ago
but that person no longer resides in his body.
Dementia steals him away every morning
when I shake his leg to rouse him
remove his watch and necklace of rudraksha beads.
He lies there like a sack of sand
not raising arm or head to help me.
*
He’s a toddler going backward
not intending to provoke or obstruct
forgetting that the pants
go on before the shoes
while I seek a way to forgive
my spouts of anger, bouts of tears
His disease tethers me to home
like a dog on a line
*
Bitter words, vinegar sour
dare not look back at years lost
dream of a better time
Then waken next to a stranger
with his face.
*
*
the love river flows, then
sinks below ground
sludge, slime and mud remain,
mud, rocks, rotten leaves
crayfish or salamander corpse
in a trickle of silty murk
sharp shingle cracked
by ice and sun
*
step with steadfast care
do not abandon this place
hold heart-close the river’s fullness
beneath your feet
pray for the rain of grace
*
*
Restless in the afternoon
He puts on his coat,
Picks up the flashlight
Where are you going?
It’s daytime
You don’t need a flashlight.
*
She gives in, gives up
sewing the quilt pieces
Takes him for a walk
in the bright April wind
he shuffles too slowly for exercise
asks to go back too soon
It’s been barely ten minutes!
Already heading home
*
Where do you live? He asks
In Wallkill. You live with me.
Do you know who I am?
What’s my name?
I don’t know. I’m sorry.
*
Now he is further gone
And she is erased
*
*
ash and bone
you remain
on wind alone
a laugh, a name
a hollow place
strewn by sea
your face,
your face
*
bone and ash
heart that lingers
tears, a moan
this heavy peace
sifts through fingers
circle of dust
ring of bone
*
*
In the hostess’s bedroom
they are too close
in the shadows
*
She doesn’t want to
see them too close
then she’ll have to know
*
She was looking for the bathroom
They are murmuring
leaning too close
They hold hands
They see her
*
She slinks away
as if she is the guilty one
*
*
Barrels the senses
Bewilders the eyes
Figures of clay, fabric, metal
Blue ceramic dog
Mechanical pecking chicken
Gray mouse in a red jacket
Ugandan woman under an umbrella
*
Containers, bags, boxes of
Doll body parts
Cloth from Thailand
Buttons in tins
Beads from ancient Morocco,
Nigeria, India, Mexico
Tinkle and rattle like mini maracas
*
Stacks of mysterious papers
Not to be moved
A secret filing system
Shelves packed with books,
Her travel journals
And the walls—a museum
Of prints and paintings
The strawberry picking migrants
In their straw hats
Tree of life tapestry
Embroidered gold birds
*
She bought what charmed her,
traded her art for collections of
Intricate buttons, filigree silver
Venetian glass, mother of pearl
She tried to feed
the dark hunger
that vacuum of terror
near her heart
*
One more clay rabbit
One more cloisonné pendant
How do you fill a space
the exact shape of God?
*
*
With her, I don’t have to talk.
She doesn’t mind if I
curl up on her couch
with my notebook and pen
She doesn’t ask what I’ve written
She reads a book about a poet
I’ve never heard of.
She makes her Earl Grey tea in
a green polka dot cup
and rooibos tea for me
in a cup that says
I quilt so I don’t kill someone
Her cat dives into my backpack
We laugh at the same time
I email her the website
of our former lover’s
dance video.
Wow, amazing, she says.
For years
we’ve lifted each other up
through divorces
hot flashes, secret longings
We’ve shared clothes and craziness,
She’s honored my true self,
as I have hers.
*
*
Tradition should have a vote, not a veto,
say the Reconstructionist Jews.
My vote goes for the third eye
Let the enigmas be unveiled
*
In the 1830s, tradition did have a veto
that sent the mystical teachings
into hiding.
Exoteric, rational thought is all very well,
but teach me the mystery, hidden magic
*
Kabbalah kept its secrets for decades,
even from Jews themselves.
Oh, my young loss,
the longing for light, peace, infinity
*
The deep way, what is received,
handed down orally,
rebbe to student.
I would kneel at your feet, blessed teacher,
where are you?
*
It found a haven from the Inquisition
in Safed, then Palestine.
Above dusty streets, the hills echoed
with holy words
*
Kabbalah’s view is a cosmology,
of four worlds,
spirit, mind, heart, body.
Spirit flame burns, mind chatters,
Heart stretches, body dissolves
*
Through prayer,
with inward intention,
one rises from world to world,
to reach the goal:
nearness to God.
*
Nothing is outside of God.
*
Had these teachings
been made known to me
fifty years ago
who knows
what sort of Jewish mystic
I might have become?
from The Jew in the Lotus, by Roger Kamenetz
*
*
I am the ocean
You are the fish
Your forms
of sequined gauze,
flash and fade in
pearl blue sea
*
I am the silence
You are the jet,
the cricket, the siren
sounds observed
become as waves
*
I am the prana*
You are the exhale
lifelong and golden
morning stars flicker out
at daybreak
*prana=life force
Tangled Magic 