September Tenth
By Tucker Lieberman
She and he were born with ten fingers,
Ten toes like dewy crowns.
On that first day, they could not know
The difference between each other,
Could not call their separate names
Across the gulf they did not see.
On Rosh Hashanah it is written,
On Yom Kippur it is sealed:
Who will live and who will die,
Who by fire, who by dagger,
Who in Washington, who in New York,
Who in plaster, who in air.
Being good, to her and him, meant dying
So that others would not have to suffer.
They were good. They reclined and sucked
A stream of light from each other’s fingers.
There were ten distinct and wholesome forms.
They did not know the difference between life and death.
The Ayn Sof shot its light beam through a prism
And divided into things perceived and thought.
These were the sefirot. Love and justice
Twined inside the bedrock.
The unconquerable Shekhinah
Spread like a savannah gathering rain.
With Hebrew year, Roman month, Arab numeral,
The moon and sun ticked off the end of the first day.
There was a second day and a number for it.
The number had no meaning.
It was slim and paired like sefirot.
It could have been any pair.
She and he pressed together. They had ten fingers,
And this had no meaning. They lit candles, tentative.
The wax and flame shouted as it deformed.
Now they thought they knew what meaning was.
They were alive. They had once believed they could die
In place of others, had once made sense of that.
Bereshit, Twice
Two candles, lit by mortal female fingers,
Or by a male if he will hold the fire,
Newlyweds, together and apart.
Now the order of creation:
One flame, the spitting image of the other,
And the other, which is different from the first.
Each faces fire alone.
By its light they see their common source,
Wax pressed in candlestick, the closing day.
Twice the world was born:
Once when man came first,
Once when man and woman came together.
Bereshit, twice.
One candle believes in duality
And one does not.
After Love
A city cleaving to its hill,
There's one who's with my body still.
Small territories fight to be.
My body lives, though barely free.
Now, when your horse runs past, you'll hear
The river tear the limestone clear.
The hills where one might seek relief
Are black as coal, still lit with grief.
Tucker Lieberman's poetry last appeared in Ariga in November 2003.
|
News from Israel
Peace: Educational Resources
Pleasure:
Ariga's Amazon Bookstore
Home
