Teshuva (brace yrself, it's a long one)

1.

What we've never had is a song

and what we've had is a song.

2.

When I was biking down 16th street,

thinking how to run a half-baked workshop

about forgiveness, I was more wrapped

in thoughts of reproach--blaming myself for

the misdeed of not thinking about this workshop

not putting the time into it, not reading enough,

providing contemporary examples. In the meantime

friends at my apartment drowned in cookie bliss

and, though the wind was thick and pleasant--

a warm towel thrown repeatedly by my face

and bare hands--there was very little calm.

We came to talking about forgiveness,

at the end, at the workshop, lasting and lingering on each one person's

tongue, a salted, unwondrous lick.

3.

Pencils sharpened, I am in

front of everyone

this feels as if a sail wrapped around

I have just tripped on a banana

peel backward falling

feeling and the floating

moment before ripping up the

silence of a silent moment

with an awkward guffaw

as if seeing someone slip

on his own words. Then we

begin to think about forgiveness.

4.

Teshuva, from what I understand, means turning, and not repentance. To repent seems too Christian and overwhelming and doesn't do justice, I feel, to the feelings we feel when we examine ourselves and the mistakes we have made so that we may finally ask for forgiveness. Turning, on the other hand, in which way, into which wind, into whose arms, into what broad field, into whose alliance, into what hand, into which direction. To turn, perhaps, as a wheel, or a chair or table, as a pencil or piece of fruit in the milken sun. Apples dipped in honey, apples dipped and honey, then we wait and turn to forgiveness.

5.

Tell that old man

on Rosh Hashanah to tremble

only on the inside.

Everyone is waiting

for them to matter

though isn't this our day to do it.

He cried while leading--

who by fire, who by water.

I have been singing this

all day long--for what?

A call, forgiveness.

6.

It is difficult to pinpoint

the song in a city

I am familiar with and love--

surprised as I am by these buildings on Porter Street

that were finished

and all that space

like blown glass--I am in love

with the fire set inside a glassblower's

I don't know what it's called, rod,

so incessantly orange

what glows like that on this earth,

not even dark or amber honey has that

distinct glow--

it sings as if it never had a song

to sing. Yet. At this point of the new year,

I am only hoping to be like glass--

there is always an ember

in it, it is still, lit--

just look at its stars

and speckles as it glows.