The Poet

Do not make me forget you.

I am a whisper

a beautiful whisper

and I speak prayers

or nothings to my own

self

and my mother ignores

how I sound

Because if she were to

listen I

would be

ashamed.

“He is without order”

is written in some person’s book

to describe the openness

of glass as it covers

every inch

of your face.

Even when the glass looks like skin

your hands and your fingers cannot

wipe your tears

without falling from your body.

I see you and I cannot breathe

And being is more fruitful

than not being

Butterflies

Your hands on my plate

My fullness in the wind

I read Rumi

I sigh

I breathe

I am both

of the dirt and of Hashem

it is difficult to find the line that is drawn

Be

with all of you

Be

from your toes to your spine

and your eyes

Be

for the ones

that cannot be

Be

and know you

are loved

‎‎תן לי את הזהב שלך

במשפחה שלי הזהב חי בארון
‎בארון הקטן שאף אחד לא יודע איפה הוא
‎‏הארון הזה מלא זהב
‎ובנינו את הארון
ושמנו בו זהב כל יום במשך שנים
‎חשבנו שנהיה שמחים עם הזהב שלנו
‎אבל אף אחד לא יודע לאן הארון נעלם

‎תן לי את האהבה שלך

The sound of your love

is ringing in my ears.

And few know this:

to be you is to be me.

I walk with my hands to the ground,

forgetting my feet.

My rose

is your rose

Your forsaken

flower and I

are close to

becoming lovers

Do not leave me,

a sound in the cave

I hear whispers on my way

Find me here

But who do you cry for?

Is your brokenness

conditional?

How quickly does it leave you?

My mother told me

to stop searching,

stay where you are.

I am being chased

on my way to here.

You are made of me.

Combed out angel hair.

Gold and brown.

Argan oil.

A cry.

A sparkle.

Red nails

against the doorknob.

Tell me,

how did

your beauty

find you?

I was once the shadow

of myself

The shadow remains

as my soul

on my soul

Every man

that could be you

is you

Death stands by the doorway. Push her out. Push her out. I am afraid.

Pink and honey, and gold and soft colors, and black and cream and white, and roses and pastels and red, and blues of water, blues of eyes, and blues of our flag.

What came first: love or life?

I

Of your self?

I separated you from any self

No one knows what what their sister

feels

She is azure

and alive

II

I cannot pray for more

My prayer is to cure

with gratitude

III

No one

asks the smiling man

where he goes to sleep

You wake to the snow

Your body is glass

Fill it with spirits

If I never returned to you

to myself

we would drink the ocean

from separate sides of it

crying a siren song

For hours the candle pulled in light. And from where we stood it shimmered like gold. A poem to you is not a poem for you. I write small revolutions, but the paper and the pen soften my fingers.