What We Might Mean By Oneness

Instead of turning left, I went right 

down a hallway I hadn’t known 

before, stepped into 

​

a yellow gown, purple 

gloves, then 

I was in his room. 

​

In the bed, so small and pale 

and brittle. But burning 

like the bright horn 

​

of a new moon. 

I sat a while, 

I watched the labored breaths, 

​

the mouth hung open 

as the world rushed in, 

then drained. I sang, I put 

​

a hand on the blanket covering 

the tangled hillock 

of his arms. I spoke 

​

small futile words, pressed 

my presence into him, hoping 

it would be gentle. 

​

I reached for what was ancient 

in me, draped it over him 

in language and in silence. 

​

People came and went, slipping 

in and out of gloves, pulling on 

and peeling off the gowns. 

​

Nurses entered reverently, meted 

out the morphine. The sky traveled 

down the window, grayed, left us

​

alone, no light brighter 

than the body in the bed, so thin

and sharp with bones, the skin 

​

over his cheeks and chin 

just gauze. Slow day 

of dying. Full of grace. 

​

I looked and saw them all. 

​

My grandmother, a year past

one hundred, her mouth a

tunnel just the same, her open

jaw, 

​

crepusculating labor. 

And Jonah, thinned and solid like

an infant tree trunk in the bed. 

​

Glowing, 

graying, 

leaving, 

​

everyone’s face tapering 

back into that one face 

at the end. 

​

What I’m trying to say 

is that I think the dying 

shuck the garment 

​

of their living, and the

remaining husk is shared. 

It emits that one 

​

shared light. 

Sitting by the bed, 

I couldn’t tell any of them 

​

apart. Hair brown, 

or blue, or sandy. 

I held her rawboned hand.

​

I sang into his bloodless ears. I

witnessed them as they fell away

from any world I knew. 

​

Our brutal, 

beautiful beginning, 

if ever we began.

​

Sonnet For the We Woven Across

ויברך אתם אלהים ויאמר להם אלהים פרו ורבו ומלאו את הארץ

God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth” - Genesis 1:28 

A heart multiplied becomes thousands of hearts. 

Great numerous heartmouth of a wolfhound that howls 

for a world. ורבו means, mushroom yourselves. 

The scholar of family abolition writes a world 

in which all people are cared for by many. 

There are one thousand ways to respect the divine. 

One thousand ways not to kill. May we earn 

the gift of the dust we’ll become. God said, 

Make yourselves numerous, pour out a clear yearning 

and fill the earth’s cup. May the You who burns 

through our separations burn brighter. 

How blessed, the perplexing. On the bridge, 

at the capital building, with extra snacks in our pockets 

and the jail support phone number inked to our arms.

​

 

Sonnet For My Mother Brewing Coffee 

ויברך אתם אלהים ויאמר להם אלהים פרו ורבו ומלאו את הארץ

God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth” - Genesis 1:28 

 

First, being fruitful came as a blessing. 

A thousand worlds later, the Rabbis exegete 

it into command. How fructose, the race 

between one self and another. ורבו 

has the same root as rav, meaning, teacher. 

One thousand ways to fertilize God. 

Scholar is mother to untold generations. 

One thousand ways to care for a young fig 

in summer. Downstairs, my mother brews 

coffee. Day births me into her arthritic hands. 

The heart gallops toward what it craves 

in the garden. The older I get, the more 

lathered my garland of fruits. Torah yourselves 

on the vine. The heart spreading all over the world.