by Dana Janine Diamond
I’ve had a craving
all day
for a cup of red lentil Minestrone
at the Eden Cafe
I’m immersed in Hass’s
The Apple Trees at Olema
chosen because it’s
Rosh Hashana, the new year.
My head is leaning in
taking poetry by the teeth
spooning on honey
from the sorrel tree,
to infuse, offer
succor from its redolence,
traveling through the spicy sagebrush
as I savor silky leeks, savory tomatoes, and soft sweet potatoes.
We tatterdemalion, pretty poets,
who wouldn’t want to be,
ahem…read a Poet Laureate?
I have to write
while I still have time
it’s the night
before Yom Kippur
have I awakened from our dream?
A blond-headed girl suddenly
lets out a loud, piercing sound
a unison call of the whooping crane,
startling me from my reverie,
her father glances at her,
“I’ll behave, Daddy,” she says.
I smile in complicity,
wishing to emit
letters from the arc of the ellipse
to sing us from slumber,
a parade of others
with downs syndrome, autism, special needs,
whatever we call different these days,
stream by accompanied
by guffaws, utterances, greetings
the girl and I wave,
Rebecca, I discover,
she boldly walks over, shakes
my hand and introduces herself.
“Now you know me?”
“Now you know me.”
“Now you know me!”
She exclaims with her hand on her heart.
Hope has arisen in mine,
a blessing from her pristine, holy soul.
I feel purified,
my metaphorical crumbs
swirling in the creek
for symbolic birds and swift fish to feed,
the hush of moving water
slips in between
peaceful pebbles,
tangled branches of leaves still green
hovering, these souls
marching before me
are my mikveh,
a second time in, and
tashlich revisited, revolving…
spinning sins into kindness,
these angels limping, helped along
by watchful parents, unsure aids, silver walkers,
their lopsided smiles
only only only
because the world is turned
upside down,
a dream within a dream.
An old man, stooped over,
his back curved into a hump,
is carefully washing a container
in the sink at the condiment station,
not shy, a large lime green kippa
clipped merrily atop his head,
above a twinkle in his eye,
a wild printed shirt and wide plaid pants,
cinched in with care
in contrast to his frail body,
something in his air
evokes Elijah, hints
at a hidden tzaddik;
despite his garish ensemble,
he manages to retain his dignity
as he shuffles lightly to his table,
in a honeycombed rhythm,
a kind of remembered grace
enhancing his step,
I close my book,
ready myself to leave,
resolve not to miss
my chance
in the Book of Life,
I wish him a Sweet New Year,
pause as he looks up,
no Tamerlane moment here,
he reveals his toothless grin,
responds, “You sure look beautiful tonight.”
“Why, thank you, um…what’s your name?”
“It’s Bob.”
“You’re real sexy,” he continues,
“Can we have dinner sometime?”
Shaking my head, I turn to go,
(I, who am covered head to toe)
turn again, “how old are you,
if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Old enough to know better
and young enough
not to give a damn!”
He interrupts his chortling
to add, “85!”
Ah, I see where I’m headed, Bob,
but I’m not there yet.
He reminds me a little
of my father, of blessed memory,
who would have turned ninety-three
this Yom Kippur,
what was that like for his mother, I wonder,
to be in labor, give birth, on the holiest of days…
he came to me once in a dream
he was floating in a canoe
on the stillness of the lake
tendering words of fatherly love,
in life, he talked of the future,
in death, he spoke only of the present.
And birth and death and the small
i in between,
begs the question,
are we as we seem?
I’m in love with truth,
if you can’t speak it, be it,
don’t waste my time, know
I will not forsake my birthright,
mine is a poet’s birthday, a poet’s namesake,
and tonight, the apples, an auspicious beginning.
*Written Eruv Yom Kippur 5772, October 7-8, 2011 (the week of Steve Job’s passing.)
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Dana Janine Diamond 