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Water & salt

The weeping woman who knelt at the feet
of Jesus and anointed him for burial
is sister to the lithe Abishag; the maid

who cradled the hoary head of David
and warmed his paper skin with her own.
Her tears remind one of Bathsheba’s,

wept over a husband, murdered
by a lover-king. The salt from those tears
brings to mind Lot’s nameless wife

who found herself drowned in a tsunami
of fear and regret. There is an essential
economy in the scriptures. Nothing

“The sun rose upon him, limping”

Genesis 32

The Lord bruised Jacob’s hip and called it blessing.
Whatever centuries later, I walked

as if with a bulging of mercury
in each leg, the muscle fighting to break its wall
even when I slept. Nobody
cut Jacob open or pitied him, for his wound
was given to be meaningful, untreatable.

Walking up stairs torqued me near bursting
and I refused elevators,
offended as I was to be defective. A brilliant

man cut me open and removed half
my pain, which makes me, statistically,

Columbarium

I. Front

After mass, every Sunday in the churchyard
I’ve come to visit you, touch the weatherings
along the roseate stone carved with your name,
birthdate, death date. Then with my fingertips
I drop a kiss along the façade, pretending you’re inside.

II. Sides

Sometimes my fingers slip, I brush my waiting place
below or next to you, I’m not sure which.
“That check includes you, too, Peter,” Father Jim said,
his faith in immortality, melodious, monotonous,
a little concerto for violin and cello.

III. Back

Mosaic for Central Reform Congregation, St. Louis, Missouri, by Siona Benjamin

Siona Benjamin’s images shimmer with jewel-toned depictions of goddesses, angels, historical figures, and anonymous immigrants. The worlds these figures inhabit hum with diverse, eclectic references, harvested from a life lived across multiple religious and cultural traditions. Raised Jewish in Mumbai and now based on the East Coast of the United States, Benjamin seamlessly incorporates Hindu, Islamic, and Christian iconography, unencumbered by any fear that this might render her work less Jewish.

Baptismal prayer

This is the season when trees
Stand naked, stamped in sharp
Shadow on still-green grass.
This is the time between living
And dying.

Grant me an inquiring and
Discerning heart
,

This is the human season now;
The air turns cold, and, daily,
Darker. Turkeys strut, circling,
Raw necks extended. Who
Knows what comes next.

The courage to will and
To persevere
,