The Poet

As soon as

it returns to me,

I will send you back.

And when it returns,

it will come as something else.

I will accept it

and all of its

changes.

I will forever hope

the fragility of your undesire

does not break me.

For a wise woman

once told me

that we cannot

make others our own.

The infant’s first wish 

was milk and touch.

What is your first wish?

From a place

of heightened fear,

I approach

growth

and

newness

I have no teacher

and every encounter I learn from

I have no opinion

and I share love with every being

I have no identity

and I grow and adapt every day

The effort of your

sighs.

Tell me of where your

mind flutters.

Written in your palms,

in your half-open

eyes.

Where do you go,

if not to me?

How do we

define skill?

I write for days,

and the center of the poem,

the part I can see

and smell

and taste

but cannot write,

lives in the close future

like the shadow of a hug.

I cannot be a poet

and still, I am.

סיימתי איתך

אין לי סבלנות לעיניים שלך

‏אבל כל פעם שאני רואה אותך

אני שוכחת שסיימתי איתך

And why

does your everything

always seem

like mine?

I try to

not be selfish.

Oh, how I try.

What is
a second to a day or
a day to a lifetime?

Your gloved hand
fits right into mine.

My forgetfulness
cries,
shameful.

Dawn is

when the sun delays its reveal

to the dirt and sky.

With wings of yellow gold

the bird

flies forever

into the sun.

Where do my fears
run to
when they leave me?

‎הלכתי בהר איתך
‎לשמיים ולאוהבי

Your strawberry fever

I write in honor of.

You ate more than 

your heart allowed,

and your golden skin

turned pink.

I wish that you will

grow back into 

your luscious self.

I read your book

and all its chapters

dedicated

to love and

to your beautiful chest

of gold

-how it found

you

What was coming

was my fall

and your grace

and my continuing

to fall

for your loveliness

My message

of all the soundless

goodbyes

was to give you

words

and to hear your

cries

Sound the bells

of a heart

Your heart here

a diamond in the bezel of my

arms

Take your pieces

of protection

If you remember,

I come from

your land

and you

come from mine

My son is

A different species than I

He eats dinner from the other

side of the table

When I am away from my child

he is the pattern

on my palm

He is who I look forward to meeting

yet will never understand

An unfinished

becoming

in small increments

and small boxes

in the hopes of reaching you