Shana Rishona

by Hannah Butcher-Stell

 

I.

Brooklyn is still so new to me:
in the morning the children walk
themselves to school, they sit
under trees. During lunch
I watch a neighbor hoist groceries
up six flights of steps, and in our
apartment I watch the bridge
beyond, tucked between buildings—
I’m unsure where it goes. There are
so many worlds out there, and I
love them all.

II.

For you, I would do anything
and I guess that means breaking apples into quarters
and boiling them for two hours.
At the right time, the skin peels
and floats to the top.
Colors the water.
Gently, I stir their insides because
I know what carelessness looks like.
For that I thank my father, and I make sure
to tell you I miss you
in the middle of the day.

III.

Lately I am making things from scratch.
Tomato dip, bread, meat balls. I know
acts of service—for that I thank my mother,
then my sister, then the man
who held the elevator open for me today.
About now (maybe, probably) he is just
getting off the train to see his wife.
A child or two.
Or his cat. Or just himself.
If you say yes to something you are really
saying no to someone else. You and me,
we’re old enough
to know this now.

IV.

What does it mean to wander the earth
and find yourself a soul
and call it yours?
In our living room, I eat
the summer like it’s my last meal.
Snap a grape from its vine.
I think about the truck drivers eating lunch
on the bridge, the bridge in our window.
Wait for you.
Can you believe it? The days
are already getting colder.

V.

It’s been a few months, and I’m carrying
the sky in my head.
Forgetting people’s names.
For relief, I go to the Empire Café, walk
outside, then go back in.
The tables are taken, so I wait
close to the door, where it is coldest.
Who am I when I’m not with you?
I wonder if there are bits of me
floating under these tables, or an old piece
in Florida I may have overlooked.

VI.

The same homeless man
makes his rounds, asks for charity:

                    It's 12 pm the day is ticking Mashiach is coming
                    he is already here!

Where does he get the confidence
to know this?
I open my hands to say, I’m sorry,
I don’t have cash to spare.

VII.

The leaves are now dropping
at an alarming rate, and I doze
and dream about kids jumping
in piles of dead leaves.
Strangers’ blurred faces.
It’s easier to tell you about lives
I will never touch and children
I do not have than to hold my own selves,
like planets in my hands, and try to describe
to you their weight, or what they want, or why
they spin, or how high
they can be thrown—

VIII.

It feels like I’m waiting for something.
And it is a small thing, like your eyelash
on my pillow. Or your pen
on my desk.
Or an egg
wobbling at the edge
of our kitchen counter…

 

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