Batya

Batya Aug 2014

I left the room today
With the two chairs,
And the one with its back to the window
Will remain occupied for as long as she rents the space,
Kept company by an invisible jar.

It is a jar that was born with me,
That shared my mother's womb,
And like me, it has grown
Over time and become its own.

A few years ago it outgrew me
And I couldn't carry it anymore,
And so she took it from me and
Set it down on her office floor.

My chest constricts when I try to describe
The contents of this container of mine,
And I'm at a loss for words, or strength, or light.

Suffice it to say that if it shattered
And my sanity had a throat- it would be slit
By such monsters as memory,
Despair, depression and other demons.

They remain there, confined, restrained,
By perseverance, honesty and faith,
By openness, communication and vulnerability,
And the choice of right from wrong.

Threatening me no longer- If
I learn from mistakes, both past and future, If
I choose to do what's good and not only what's easy, If
I choose to surf the waves that sometimes overcome me.

Today I left the room with the two chairs
And a guide, a mentor and a friend
Who helped refine the tools to find myself,
And sift through my Pandora's cookie jar.

Batya Aug 2014

Life After Death

If I died tomorrow,
Who'd be sorrowed?

My regular audience, long
Accustomed eulogizers- of
Love soured, years passed, and
Companions lost along the way.

I'd be another sadness,
Another Facebook status,
None would search for COD,
They'd merely state my TOD.

None would hunt my words,
The only treasure trove I strove to leave behind,
None would know or care
That I'd taken my own life

If not directly, then by depressing
Into a state of deep, smothering,
Numbing, tragic blackness.

If I died tomorrow,
My mother would sob.
When asked if I could have committed suicide,
She'd roll her eyes, and never nod.

My father would be broken.
He'd interrupt his grief by joking.

My brother would not believe that I was gone,
He'd interrupt them and insist that they were wrong.

My sweetheart, oh, the only one upon whom thinking of
I very nearly did not embrace the void instead of love-
For ever would you say farewell.
Torn from me in this world and the next,
For love does not survive this life in the way that we believe,
Or so you say, but I digress,
For if I thought that true,
These words would not just be a morbid woman's
Morbid wonderings of other lives and others' lives
After her depart did her part from you.

Batya Jul 2014

New Fish in Town

She got a fish.
Some random person
Handed her a goldfish
In a bag
And she kept it.

And then she got another one,
To keep the first one company.
She bought them a tank,
And pebbles,
And a plastic plant.
And I feel stupid because
I thought we were dirt poor.
I thought she was broke enough
To tell me my dad has to support me,
Because that's what she's been saying.

She's got plants, too.
Five balconies,
And flowers
And herbs.

So now she's got fish to feed
And plants to prune and water,
When I'm in therapy
And I get my own dinner
And I've been hung out to dry since I was twelve.

God forbid her fish should swim alone,
Or her plants beg her for attention,
She'll love them, care as if they were her own,
And I'll cry myself to sleep again.

Unless their novelty will fade.
Unless slowly, she'll be too busy for them, too.
Unless they won't be her babies anymore.
Until they die and wither as most neglected things do.

Batya Jul 2014

If God Spoke

"I will be what I will be,
I will do what I will do,
And no one is going to stop me.

My children will ****
Or be killed,
They will sin in my name.

I will tear down my temple,
Like a *******
I will crumble these creatures
All made in my image.

Babes will brandish automatic weapons,
Innocents ruled by tyranny,
And I, all- powerful, omniscient as I am
Sit on my throne, laughing.

Or maybe I'm sleeping?
I'm not quite sure.
Perhaps I'm lost in my own Eden?

These prayers-- mere amusements,
Unless I've deafened in old age,
These sacrifices keep alive
The spirit of the good old days.

Men divide
Against each other and themselves,
Some still won't utter my true name,
Some wisely have quit caring.

Who are the heretics,
Who are the prophets of truth?
Allah, God and Hashem,
Is it my name I see above?"

Are any of them you?

Batya Jul 2014

When God is Closest

I just got shot
Right in the chest.

And I thought,
"Jesus Christ, that really hurts."

I fell to the ground,
Hot blood began soaking my shirt.

And through my hazy agony,
I was aware of the poetry-
Of my dying thought:
That missing you
Killed
Me.

If you read this, and you know who you are, know that:
1. I die every time I remember where you are. Every time, all over again.
2. I love you more than I love breathing-- and so in a way, you really are my lifeline.
3. Perhaps I wouldn't die quite so often if there were a medic around.
4. We are intrinsically intertwined. There is no separating us now.
5. Every time I see you, I come to life.
6. Every time I think about seeing you, I remember my life.
7. Every time you touch me you revive me.
8. Every time I think about you touching me, I feel like maybe, one day soon, that will happen.
9. Every time I shake my head and realize you're far away, and at war, I die again.
10. I'm dead right now, and missing you killed me.

Batya Jul 2014

I Am an Island

I’m an island
On another planet,
I’m so far away I could die.
The earthquake that made me
Comes back around to shake me up
And now and again
I crumble away a little
And the fish nibble at my toes.
I’m an island,
I’m surrounded, swallowed up
By deep blue melancholy,
I have a little melody
That I whisper through my palm trees
When the wind comes whistling ‘round.
I’m an island
And I’m beautiful
For white sands and a volcano,
I’m so beautiful you’d cry
If you could see me,
You’d try to free me
But I’m stuck to the ocean ground.
I’m an island,
I write myself a novel,
Because I’ve got no one else but Word,
And my four peach- colored walls
Become the horizons that I’m dreaming of
And my floor becomes lagoons
That beckon me to drown.
I’m an island
Because I cry,
My tears are my existence,
I’m my own wife and my own husband,
And I am childless and bloodless and I’ll always be around.

He is a rowboat
Of weathered wood,
Made of love and aged by making love
To the elements that define him,
And his wisdom and his readiness
To cross the Seven Seas.
He is a rowboat,
His billowed sails prepare for passion,
His oars anticipate his return home
With two in tow.
He is a rowboat,
The only one who can
And wants to reach his island in distress,
He carries himself
On wings of wind,
He’ll carry us both
When it becomes apparent that I can’t swim,
He’ll row and row and row his boat
To land ashore on the pain within
And he’ll love me all the way to his mainland.

Batya Jun 2014

More Truth to the Book

Sometimes in life, a preference
Is but the lesser of two evils,
Like choosing ***** or Gemorah;
And sometimes it is a sacrifice,
As palpable as Abraham and Isaac's.
Sometimes choosing means
Standing by the roadside
With your thumb straight out,
Your heart a wide open chasm
To swallow the sinner in you whole,
And blank eyes screaming "I don't know".
Sometimes you're a Tamar,
And people, bless their hearts,
Think you're a Sara or Rebecca
And you just feel like a big ol' Delilah.
Sometimes your face feels like the Red Sea,
Only the dry land is wet with snot,
And sometimes despite it all,
You raise your hands up in the air
And the sun stands still
In the valley of Refaim or Aijalon.
Sometimes your Temple burns,
You realize your body is the loot
And you barely recognize the ornaments.
But even when you're exiled
In the solitude of your own mind,
There remains the promise of redemption,
And whether Messianic or romantic,
You must have faith in the intervention
That will guide you towards the future from Isaiah.