"seder" poems
My flesh is freshly skinned, because of my father’s
nails. My father is brushing out the tangles in my
hair. He is used to the brushing, he says, because he
used to have a sister. I don’t think to ask him where
his sister is now, although I picture her with hair
perfectly tangled, like an extended family, like ancestry.
My family tree is knotted and webbed, but every member
has a place, and if you’re lucky, a purpose. My mother’s
purpose is to cook soup for the Passover Seder. I picture
Passover as ****** as when the planets forget to flash
across the sky. This happens. I have seen it the way I’ve
seen a boy look at me from across a wooden table.
The boy feels like my cousin, even though he is not my
cousin. He just happens to have a gaze that calculates,
like the gazes of the old men that sit together in my town,
on the corner of the two streets whose names I can never
remember. When I walk by them I make sure to shuffle my
feet even quicker than I usually do, because I want to forget
about my body. I don’t look in mirrors anymore. I don’t even
look into my favorite lake anymore. The way it wrinkles together
hurts as much as my father’s nails do: my father’s nails against
my scalp and against my skin. My father picking me up out of the bath.
I am still wearing my organs. I don’t think I’m three years old anymore,
but I’m not quite sure. I can never remember what it is like to age.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
Maundy Thursday – Mass of the Last Supper
“Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”
-Shakespeare
The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass
Supper is concluded; the servants strip
The Table bare of all the Seder service:
Cups, linens, and dishes, leaving in the dark
An Altar bare, prepared for sacrifice
In Gethsemane the flowered air is sweet
But iron-heeled caligae offend the night
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
“Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”
-Shakespeare
The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass
Supper is concluded; the servants strip
The Table bare of all the Seder service:
Cups, linens, and dishes, leaving in the dark
An Altar bare, prepared for sacrifice
In Gethsemane the flowered air is sweet
But iron-heeled caligae offend the night
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
woke early, too early
and thought of your power
its back, i hope
cool still, but the disconnect
funny, last night
youth, innocence, ignorance
craft beer about
and you
that war i spoke
it was all blood and death
and they smiled
i wanted you to know
today is busy
art has eaten me up
seder last night
and here i am, the catholic
my black soul, drinking
syrup it tastes
and i can't, i'd rather not
i'm lost
the table huge
and they put me at the end
i try to hide
but they see it, that **** light
it's a draw you know
transparent, though i shield it
sunglasses and bare face
and still, it persists
i'm laughing
my bare soul pressed
and these eyes
whose are they?
always tool long
i go, it's frustrating
i know
i'm sorry
****** again, the apologies
you do it, we laugh
yours is different
and my foot that morning
hearing the restraint
your voice, and i hate myself
i see your eyes, turn down
feedback masked as criticism
i'll try, you must too
it's a minefield
i've not the supplies
alone
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC