Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Rosh Hashannah/Yom Kippur 5768 (lots to work on....but here goes)


I can feel my davening travel
all the way to the bottom of my tie.


A green apple in honey
is a soured scrape
licked clean by a cat named Doti.


My paradox is I must hear
the cantor wail and beat his chest.
The rabbi too; though they
must always be in tune
like two mourning doves.


There is not a quieter sound
than a page turning
slowly; and a finger
tracing the rims of each word
as if to find meaning.


A small stab of pain --
today is a day of memory
so I tried to remember again
during Yizkor service.
Death is a cake of scented soap
unlike memory
which washes into you.


Returning home from dinner,
people chat as if it were a normal day.
But only half the double doors
on this bus will close.
Everyone notices, no one moves.
If I fall, I fall, says the girl standing closest.


Home, and Sunday's tomorrow,
as inevitable as honey and apples.

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