This is the poem I finally tell you

This is one of the hardest poems I have ever written..

I did it in twenty minutes, without overthinking or letting myself censor my heart...

I cried...

This is the poem I finally tell you

I am two

a mere piece of a person

and I stand against the wall

wait for a moment the teacher turns

then slide out the door like a butter moon

down stairs, freckled stone

and away to where the dandelions grow

I do not care for the preschool soprano

circles of the teacher

singing prayers

or the way she makes rules for art

or the bible stories

that have to be heard without pacifiers

I am six

my Nana is garnishing the tree

and tinsel alights on plastic boughs

snow constellations and colors

red like fairy tale hearts

green of magic potions

sapphire blue and sword silver

and the gold of fools

Mom doesn't know

that Nana tells me of Jesus

Mom at her shabbos table

full of guests and food and hospitality

it almost makes sense

except it is drowned in the feel of

duty and rules and

synagogue so tedious

slow and foreign Hebrew litanies

only when they sing

do the chords strike my belly

and why doesn't God understand

my English?

and Nana is not wrong

and Mom is not wrong

they both need spectacles

or something

to see clearly

because none of it matters

but light and color and feel

which drips from the crust

of the heavens and glimmers down

like icicles at the corner of eyes

when you know and see

I am nine

now

and he is going to die

the life fades from his blue eyes

my eyes

dusk fades in my spirit garden

and the religious laws

seem so much more stupid

for him to abide now

a fucking waste of time

when even small tasks

are so difficult

and there is no time left

but there is love,

so much love

and love is all

I am ten

and Nana is mute

her words eaten by a stroke serpent

a giant theft in the night

and she looks at me

with the blue eyes

of a wounded sparrow

my eyes

Where is the hot white warm net

of all that exists in heaven and earth

where is the dove

and the owl of the spirit

that calls to the pull of the tides

and the music crescendos

and the scent of cinnamon and flowers

and the neck of a woman I love

where are the wings of the angels

as they brush the babies cheeks

where is the tree and the bastion

and the rock and the edge of coherence

where is eternity and its gentle hands

the eyes that know

the love of it all

that brings me to my knees

with the embrace

and all I cry for

this is my God