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.