Relief
"Four sources described another incident when Israel rejected a shipment of dates – a rich source of nutrients desperately needed by a hungry population. Two of the sources said it was because the seeds were picked up as a suspicious object in the x-ray inspection imaging." -- March 2, 2024
we open them now.
my hands summon dust
and curious flies
as the sticky pull
of date flesh split
between pinched fingers
renders two empty cradles
that once nestled a seed.
praise this soft fruit,
dense with memory, this legacy of a bite
that holds the tongue in sweetness
long after the swallow.
if there are enough dates,
no one else has to starve.
what weapon could these make,
other than a gasp of strength
in a body wracked breathless
to the bones?
what terror could come
from a mouth too full
to curse you?
we open them now.
my hands summon dust
and curious flies
as the sticky pull
of date flesh split
between pinched fingers
renders two empty cradles
that once nestled a seed.
praise this soft fruit,
dense with memory, this legacy of a bite
that holds the tongue in sweetness
long after the swallow.
if there are enough dates,
no one else has to starve.
what weapon could these make,
other than a gasp of strength
in a body wracked breathless
to the bones?
what terror could come
from a mouth too full
to curse you?
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Kol Nidre
and this year,
even before I raise my fist, my chest is aching,
a bruise already seeping up from the deep,
the paralyzed, the silent witness in me
not enough, not enough, not enough
the shame of it slapping me red, my unstirred, resting feet
(how slow they are, how unwilling)
not enough not enough not enough
the gates are closing
and I am still miles of unwalked righteousness
the gates are closing
and I am not forgiven
the gates are closing
and I have not forgiven
the gates are closing
and I have not yet
cracked
open.
even before I raise my fist, my chest is aching,
a bruise already seeping up from the deep,
the paralyzed, the silent witness in me
not enough, not enough, not enough
the shame of it slapping me red, my unstirred, resting feet
(how slow they are, how unwilling)
not enough not enough not enough
the gates are closing
and I am still miles of unwalked righteousness
the gates are closing
and I am not forgiven
the gates are closing
and I have not forgiven
the gates are closing
and I have not yet
cracked
open.
The Shofar Breaks Your Heart
When you give a girl a shofar –
no, not a proper instrument of G!d,
but a rough-cut horn with no real mouthpiece
her aunt brings back from a trip to Jerusalem,
don’t make it easy.
Put it up on the shelf in the living room
where its curled promise of a shout
will tempt her until she can reach it on tiptoe.
Tell her no one has ever found its voice,
that she will only make it grunt, bray and sputter
like the animal it came from.
Then give her a few years.
Give her an empty garage and a neighborhood
Jewish enough to understand what it’s hearing
so she can practice until
tiny tekiot burst forth from the scrap of ram.
She will be the only one who can ever shape its sounds,
can bend the call to tekiah, round off nine drops of t’ruah wailing,
fling the anguished cry of a sh’varim from its mouth.
Let her brag about this. Remember that children
are not humble creatures, that the simple act of being heard
is their great triumph. Let her be heard.
Bring her to Hebrew school.
Teach her the story of the rabbi
who told his students that he would put the words of Torah on their hearts;
that the words would only find their way in when the students’ hearts broke.
Let her sit with that tale for as long as it takes
for her own heart to shatter, for torah and poetry and forgiveness
find their way inside,
play her Leonard Cohen. Let him croon about the cracks in everything,
that’s how the light gets in, let her begin searching for light,
ask her where she thinks the cracks come from,
give her Auschwitz, give her Torquemada, give her pogrom and
quota and blacklist, the ashes of all her burnt bridges,
give her avinu malkenu, ashamnu, ashamnu, ashamnu,
watch her break
her heart
with her fist.
Give her the shofar.
Let the horn steal her breath,
let her begin to understand that she’s not holding a dead piece of animal,
but a living prayer.
Teach her: after every blast
you can hear the echo
of the still small voice.
If you listen for it,
you can hear the calls for the wild cries they are;
salute them with a straight back when they yank you from your amidah;
and should you hear a shofar blower struggle and gasp and strain for each call,
imagine yourself a trapped animal, desperate to be heard.
When it’s over,
Close your eyes.
Be. Broken. Here. Before G!d and your people. Be. Cracked.
feel the light
and the words
come
in.
no, not a proper instrument of G!d,
but a rough-cut horn with no real mouthpiece
her aunt brings back from a trip to Jerusalem,
don’t make it easy.
Put it up on the shelf in the living room
where its curled promise of a shout
will tempt her until she can reach it on tiptoe.
Tell her no one has ever found its voice,
that she will only make it grunt, bray and sputter
like the animal it came from.
Then give her a few years.
Give her an empty garage and a neighborhood
Jewish enough to understand what it’s hearing
so she can practice until
tiny tekiot burst forth from the scrap of ram.
She will be the only one who can ever shape its sounds,
can bend the call to tekiah, round off nine drops of t’ruah wailing,
fling the anguished cry of a sh’varim from its mouth.
Let her brag about this. Remember that children
are not humble creatures, that the simple act of being heard
is their great triumph. Let her be heard.
Bring her to Hebrew school.
Teach her the story of the rabbi
who told his students that he would put the words of Torah on their hearts;
that the words would only find their way in when the students’ hearts broke.
Let her sit with that tale for as long as it takes
for her own heart to shatter, for torah and poetry and forgiveness
find their way inside,
play her Leonard Cohen. Let him croon about the cracks in everything,
that’s how the light gets in, let her begin searching for light,
ask her where she thinks the cracks come from,
give her Auschwitz, give her Torquemada, give her pogrom and
quota and blacklist, the ashes of all her burnt bridges,
give her avinu malkenu, ashamnu, ashamnu, ashamnu,
watch her break
her heart
with her fist.
Give her the shofar.
Let the horn steal her breath,
let her begin to understand that she’s not holding a dead piece of animal,
but a living prayer.
Teach her: after every blast
you can hear the echo
of the still small voice.
If you listen for it,
you can hear the calls for the wild cries they are;
salute them with a straight back when they yank you from your amidah;
and should you hear a shofar blower struggle and gasp and strain for each call,
imagine yourself a trapped animal, desperate to be heard.
When it’s over,
Close your eyes.
Be. Broken. Here. Before G!d and your people. Be. Cracked.
feel the light
and the words
come
in.
Freude
Children, go where I send thee…
The first time I sang
about Jesus
was in middle school.
The 50-voice choir was half Jewish,
but by the opening night of the Holiday Concert,
we were down to twenty-eight.
Some kids dropped out
because their furious parents didn’t want them singing Christmas carols in public school;
some dropped of their own volition.
As much an activist as any seventh grader,
I was eager-beaver ready
to make a statement
about the separation between church and state.
but my family knows less about picket lines
than the works of people with names like
Giovanni Palestrina, and said
No. Music is holy. Learn make your peace with it.
It was never about the lyrics. I know more
of the Latin Mass than half the Catholics
I grew up with.
I've stood in grand cathedrals
built on the ashes of Jewish towns.
But when I hear those arched ceilings
cradle the offerings of our voices
I feel forgiveness spring
from beneath my shoulders
like wings.
In the house of my grandparents,
where the sound of German spoken
still makes my grandmother shake,
my grandfather, a Holocaust survivor,
fills the house with Bach, Beethoven, Schubert and Brahms
Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium
He doesn’t call this forgiveness.
He calls it human; a recognition
of something that exists above us.
"Some things, darling, you just can't live without.”
I’ve sung in churches
and Christmas concerts.
I’ve sung praise hymns
and Vespers. I know more
songs about Jesus than I do
about any other Jew.
I was four
when Grandpa began to teach me music –
twelve, before he mentioned G-d.
By then, I’d built peace like an altar of basslines.
Some things, you just can’t live without.
Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
It was never about the words.
The first time I sang
about Jesus
was in middle school.
The 50-voice choir was half Jewish,
but by the opening night of the Holiday Concert,
we were down to twenty-eight.
Some kids dropped out
because their furious parents didn’t want them singing Christmas carols in public school;
some dropped of their own volition.
As much an activist as any seventh grader,
I was eager-beaver ready
to make a statement
about the separation between church and state.
but my family knows less about picket lines
than the works of people with names like
Giovanni Palestrina, and said
No. Music is holy. Learn make your peace with it.
It was never about the lyrics. I know more
of the Latin Mass than half the Catholics
I grew up with.
I've stood in grand cathedrals
built on the ashes of Jewish towns.
But when I hear those arched ceilings
cradle the offerings of our voices
I feel forgiveness spring
from beneath my shoulders
like wings.
In the house of my grandparents,
where the sound of German spoken
still makes my grandmother shake,
my grandfather, a Holocaust survivor,
fills the house with Bach, Beethoven, Schubert and Brahms
Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium
He doesn’t call this forgiveness.
He calls it human; a recognition
of something that exists above us.
"Some things, darling, you just can't live without.”
I’ve sung in churches
and Christmas concerts.
I’ve sung praise hymns
and Vespers. I know more
songs about Jesus than I do
about any other Jew.
I was four
when Grandpa began to teach me music –
twelve, before he mentioned G-d.
By then, I’d built peace like an altar of basslines.
Some things, you just can’t live without.
Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
It was never about the words.
