We visit gravesites, mark
a year’s passing, turn in in
order to turn out another dimension.
We rough our smooth edges.
We visit gravesites, cemented
on grass and dirt, cover their tops
with rocks, thin bricks line
our chest, cavities of past mistakes.
We fail ourselves, calling mistakes
failures. We don’t just bury
past mistakes, we return them,
admonished. Failing to breathe
my chest, x-rayed again. Turning,
I turn my body before technicians ask,
knowing routine, knowing
machines better than skin
of lovers, I turn. Arms up. Ready. Exposed
passed my mistakes again, and go back
in the time of Elul. I am my own
beloved, as my beloved is mine
and I don’t prepare to apologize.
Not this time. How does one prepare
if one doesn’t apologize? I plotted
gravesites enough, yours and mine.
I sorried myself for you, calling
mistakes failures. Said I’m sorry,
wrong or right. Buried on top,
catacombed by thin bricks
lining my chest-grieving sites
of past mistakes, x-
raying failures. Have I done enough?
Did I fail, my mistake, again?
Blow another ram’s horn, another year,
caved, my chest glares back up
to me and grimaces Enough!
You’ve done enough this time!
The gravesites: tended.
Wrong or right, we want to know
will we be held?
Image of KosKomárom – zsidó temet?. Author: Szeder László courtesy of kosherdelights.com