Massachusetts 17: A Poll, or At Last! A
Break From Incessant Poetry!

I lost my Magen David necklace today. I've worn it every day for years, but the clasp has been kind of funny lately, and I imagine it just dropped to the ground somewhere between my house and the coffee shop. I'm not so sad as one might think, because although I liked my star very much, it was given to me by the Men's Club of my home synagogue, just like all the other bat mitzvah girls in my year, so it wasn't so special.

However, I like wearing a star. I like putting it on every morning, I like identifying as a Jew in public. I find myself fiddling with it when I'm thinking hard, even sometimes when I pray, which is not too often.

So, I'm casting about for a new one. This time, I'll have a choice in what it looks like, which is neat. I'm posting here a few pictures, and asking everyone to weigh in. Go ahead - what's your two cents?



This is option A. I like it because of the intertwined triangles, which I've always favored over the one-on-top look. I also like the aesthetic of the twisted metal. But maybe it's a little boring?
















This is option B. It's not a star, but a shofar, a ram's horn. I like it particularly because I've never seen a shofar necklace before, and because I am a shofar blower. It's a stronger representation of my participation in the Jewish community. And it might come in handy, should I ever need to hide my Jewishness (G-d forbid!) But do I really want to go around explaining what the hell I have on my neck to everyone?





This is Option C. I can't lie; I love this one so much, both because it brings two historical symbols of resistance into one piece of jewelry, and because it's a little imperfect. However, it also says "never again" on the back of it. Do I want to carry around the Holocaust on my neck? It's already on my shoulders. And maybe that clenched fist is a little too appropriated...






That's all for now. I'll post more designs if I find any.

Massachusetts 16, or Final Draft

In My Image

Do you remember our last
lesson in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked horrified, as if I was asking you
to tear babies from their mothers.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”

I know the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest,
I think of how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line
between ocean and sky
and watched as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America out of Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water,
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide
as it rises towards the beckoning moon,
wishing only to hold her one more time.

When I was finished,
I told myself it was good, it was good, it was…good
as my unconvinced eyes
took in the strange and unfamiliar world before me.

My first real creation was that lie.

I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.

You were an accident.
An unexpected result
of an unexpected pleasure.
After five miserable days,
I was ready to quit, but I found myself
with clay in my hands, like
an unspoken invitation to play awhile. So I did.

While my hands worked and collected thick coats of cracking clay,
I began to think the way every potter does,
wondering what my creation would be able to hold.

I kneaded poetry into your veins,
as vital as the beat I pounded into your heart,
or the tongue I molded into your mouth,
but on your shoulders, I wedged the burden I needed to share.
I couldn’t be responsible
for every distinction,
so I taught you how to pull weeds from flowers,
but you learned to cry for the weeds on your own.

I tried to teach you:
you, too, are a creator.
And: without you, nothing matters.

It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our lessons in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but
I offer you this: you were right about the weeds.

Come home.

Massachusetts 15, or Maybe Final Draft?

In My Image

I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked horrified, as if I was asking you
to tear babies from their mothers.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”

I know the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest,
I think of how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line
between ocean and sky
and watched as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America out of Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water,
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide
as it rises towards the beckoning moon,
wishing only to hold her one more time.

When I was finished,
I told myself it was good, it was good, it was...good
even as I looked around with terrified eyes
at this strange and unfamiliar world.

My first real creation was that lie.

I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.

You were an accident.
An unexpected result of an
unexpected pleasure. After five miserable days,
I was ready to quit, but I found myself
with clay in my hands, like
an unspoken invitation to play awhile. So I did.

While I coated my hands in thick coats of cracking clay,
I began to think the way every potter does,
wondering what my creation would be able to hold.

I kneaded poetry into your veins,
as vital as the beat I pounded into your heart,
and the tongue I molded into your mouth,
and on your shoulders, I wedged the burden I needed to share.
I couldn’t be responsible
for every distinction,
so I taught you how to pull weeds from flowers,
but you learned to cry for the weeds on your own.

I tried to teach you:
you, too, are a creator.
And: without you, nothing matters.

It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our lessons in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but
I offer you this: you were right – about the weeds.

Come home.

Massachusetts 14, or Poem Re-Drafted

Letter to Adam

Do you remember the talks
we used to have in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked terrified, as if I were asking you
to choose between your children.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”

I know
the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest, I think of
how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line between
ocean and sky and watched
as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I think about how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America out of Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide rise
towards the full moon, with the hope
of holding her one more time.

When I was finished, I told myself it was good
again and again – an incantation
to ward off the destruction I’d caused.

My first real creation was that first lie.

I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.

You were an accident.
An unexpected result of an
unexpected pleasure. After five days,
I was spent. I don’t know what
angel put the clay in my hands,
but it seemed
like an invitation to play. So I did.

As I worked, I began to think the way every potter does,
wondering what my creations will
be able to hold as I’m forming them.

Halfway through, I knew you would hold the things
I couldn’t give anyone else, but

I also gave you the burden I needed to share.
I made you responsible
for every distinction:

whether pulling weeds from flowers,

or deciding when a revolution is less dangerous
than obedience.

Because you, too, are a creator.

You, not I, decide what matters.

It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our talks in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but
I offer you this: you were right – about the weeds.

Come home.

Massachusetts 13, or Poem Draft

Comments welcome, as usual.

G-d's Letter of Apology

Do you remember the talks
we used to have in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked terrified, as if I were asking you
to make some impossible choice.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”

I know
the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest, I think of
how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line between
ocean and sky and watched
as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I think about how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America from Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t bear to watch the tide rise
towards the full moon, with the hope
of holding her once more.

I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you, when you
were just wet clay under my palms.

You were an accident.
An unexpected result of an
unexpected pleasure. After five days,
I was spent; I found myself
with clay in my hands, and was too tired
to do anything but play. So I did.

I found myself thinking the way every potter does,
wondering what my creations will
be able to hold as I’m forming them.

I knew you would hold the things
I couldn’t give anyone else:
love, betrayal, poetry, but

I also gave you the burden I needed to share.
I made you responsible
for every distinction:
whether pulling weeds from flowers,

or deciding when obedience is more
dangerous than chaos,

or the difference between the pleasures
of sun warmth on your back
and wet clay under your fingers.

The first secret
is that you, too, are a creator.

The second is a confession:
that without you, none of the other things matter.

It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our talks in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but

I offer you this: you were right – about the weeds.

Come home.