(Hear o Israel the lord our God the Lord is 1)
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Cicada Shema
What’s the buzz Israel-
17 years already?
Cicadas sear dusk’s edges
as swollen ground spits gen x’rs
who split skin
rouse us from rem
with ancient rhythms of merging-birthing-dying
droning out what’s left of the day
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A million wings clap at irregular intervals
until I can’t hear myself think O Israel,
Blades of grass groan
under the weight of abandoned bodies crunching underfoot
heightening the religiosity of love/death songs
and the instant choir who whine as one.
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RitualWell 2019
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Every day a Little Death
(in the buttons, in the bread)
Each Yom Kippur I rehearse my own death.

Pearls nap in the jewelry box, shiny Mary Jane’s poke from
the rack and sackcloth stands in for silk. 
I prefer not to sleep in a coffin, as I plan my funeral
with Sharon Olds reading her latest and the Emerson string quartet
playing Bartok.
 Elul’s moon is weighted down by custard and should haves.
The corner of shroud lifted by the wind whispers, “keep what is precious and forget the rest”. 
I beg you to do the same.

Speak with me, to me, thru me of forgiveness and of regret. 
All I can leave you is this perfectly fragranced afternoon,
because my father sold all the good jewelry when my mother died. I do have her half moon seiko whose battery hasn’t been changed in 20 years. Time stops.
But now, it is time to preheat, shape the Portuguese sweet bread round as the moon and pull it fresh from the oven
steaming. It is time to invite my mother and my father to sit down and break bread with me.
Death is my teacher and every fall I rehearse, as mine marches closer. But for now, life. The button can wait.
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Jewish Poetry Project 2020
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Bird Musings
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This morning, I do know why the cage bird can’t sing. Singing is outlawed in this time.
As a cantor, I remain silent.
With the screen door ajar, motorcycles, trucks and a car backfire mingle with Mozart. I re-read this poem. It provides another meaning. I am a singer. I am partially defined by the notes I intone. In this time, it is dangerous to sing. I am told droplets like tiny crowns flung from my throat land on the bat mitzvah girl’s bangs, her father’s cheek, the rabbi’s ear. I haven’t done an in person bat mitzvah in 6 months. Singing loudly is worse than cantare dolcemente. But, for our safety, we must simply mouth the words.
I imagine from my balcony, in the green space below, I see masked singers, 6 ft apart sporting sky blue masks. How terrifying that singing can hurt other people. I can sing at the top of my lungs to birds in trees, especially red cardinals. And if I were a bird, I would carry away my grey hair swatches and weave them into a nest. I have been grey for awhile. But now, I wake up each morning feeling a decade older.
I venture from my apartment, for necessities only; short walk, short drives, dinner in boxes.
So, until they craft a vaccine here I sit, cage door swung open with me unmoving.
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Passager- Covid 19 on-line diary entries 2020
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HYMMNN after Ginsberg
In the world which He created according to his will,
He is to be Lauded and Praised, Propped up and Pinned, Exalted and
Blessed.
Yes, blessed be the name of the Wholly one, Blessed be SHe.
In the condo in Mt. Washington where the poet crafts her litany, let her
be blessed, please.
Inside the Temple in Park Heights, where the rabbi is suspended and the halls empty,
we muster, Blessed be She.
Further along the hallway, in the cantor’s study, where her books are boxed to the ceiling
Having been silenced, she says no comment.
we whisper, Blessed be She.
In the bottom bunk, the teen tosses and turns, we respond to her nightmares with a weak,
Blessed be She
In the field 70 miles from Manhattan, another rabbi, red haired and fresh faced,
Who rose on eagles wings,
Whose head swam with ancient Aramaic, the legalize of long dead rabbis
Who flew with birds
Who understood subtle shifts in current
Who died on Shabbat, therefore was needed up in heaven to resolve Talmudic arguments.
We all say
Blessed be He and She and
Blessed. Be.
Amen.
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Voice of Eve 2018
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