Prayer in a Bomb Shelter

Walking through Jerusalem I marveled
at the old built alongside the new
ancient history grafted against modern skin

Inscription

I found a letter. A rune. A symbol lying on the ground, metallic like a new penny and glistening like the tops of ocean waves at sunset. Heavier than it looked, it pulled down my hand like a child’s eager tug, curled around itself and shaped more precisely than human hands could craft. It reminded me of a script e, at once the most renowned of our alphabet and a number as natural as earth and air. I stared deeper, aroused by a memory of a story my rabbi shared, about the four-fingered shin inscribed on our tefillin, the prayer boxes we wear on our arms, on our brows: this is last letter of the Hebrew aleph bet, whose sound has never been heard, whose meaning is beyond imagination, and God won’t reveal it until we’re ready for a new day.

But the world isn’t ready. I’m not ready yet. I’d like to give it back.

Turbulence

We’re sitting at the dinner table
we hear the cars outside, the muffled sounds
of tires and engines, life going on
but above us, silence

no sounds of the planes
that used to cry overhead
like the birds in the wood
around our house, now silent.

Atop the Waves

the arms of the ocean
reach from the land to the sea
and hold my hands
atop the waves

the heartbeat of the earth
beats through my veins
and uplifts me
atop the waves

the hand of God
reaches beneath me
and holds me
atop the waves

Placencia, Belize, March 9, 2013

But, Anna, love does hurt

Driving away from a wreck of a day
you tell me you’re falling to pieces
I turn from the mirror to glance far away
not to stare at my own broken pieces

An abhorrence, you called it, this thing I call love
but you gave it to me, my creator
I stare at the gates as they swing shut above
I’ll repent for this sooner or later

Excerpted from Shattered