All morning, I return
to the poem, to the word’s ash,
the self smoldering, and the slow burn
of mourning. I return
with sacred words that turn
night’s bloody gash
into morning. O, self, return
to his poem: the ash
of the world rising
with returning words:
mourning and morning.
To be completely clear:
the trees are not on fire.
No flame blazes so brilliantly,
so capriciously, as these
dying leaves, dyed like the heads
of high school girls and boys,
impossible hues, stolen from
spring and summer’s storeroom:
goldfinch feather, dahlia petal,
fragrant peel of clementine.
This morning, early, a hummingbird flutters
beside the hibiscus, untamed as
your daughter’s
infant daughter
now sleeping restlessly in her crib,
her breath
softly creaking, like the Boston rocker where
To the ghettoes
Warsaw, Vilne, Lodz, Lublin
Then little children were brought to Jesus
Sara, Rebecca, Leah, Rachel
for him to place his hands on them and pray for them
Avraham, Yitzhak, Yaakov, Yosef
But the disciples rebuked those who brought them.
Miriam, Yocheved, Tzipora, Elisheva
Jesus said, “Let the little
Baraks, Gideons, Shimshons, Shmuels
children come to me,
Yissachars, Zevulons, Gads, Ashers
and do not hinder them,