As if you were a golem all those years
our faces rested together in the dark,
shammes, turning in clockwork
sunset and the shuffling of pages,
blank-faced dust dry of sweat or sorrow
blood—the breath that returns to clay,
figures on the blackest ground.
As if I
opened your lips and sealed you
as fire in the singing eye of God
disheveled, untimely, argumentative,
by laughter, surprising with silence,
mortal—not a cuneiform to be cracked
stand, but a palimpsest spilling over,
annotated, rewritten at a blink or a kiss.
As if we
were not the same salt-wet earth,
impressionable flesh and speech.
to eidolons, making likenesses
and nowhere, figuring our ways
mirror to metaphor: the Mahara"l knew.
ancestors are photographs.
words are the death masks of dreams.
gematriya of the Other Side,
unspelled by the three angels of Ben-Sira,
with ochre-smeared hands throws
of Adam on the riverbanks of Eden.
through generation and expulsion,
like bone-ash with an apple's ribs,
we caress or grasp, we leave
in her nightlong arms.)