Dear Angel of Death and your silent
orchestra, my brother got here first.
We disturb him, put on masks.
I’m not sure why, but it makes everyone
feel better. Dear feelings, who left
the plastic bag with two candles,
one still burning? Dear matches,
I am thinking of catastrophic fires
started by good intentions. Dear trees,
dear riddle of wind, there is only half
a dedication. Move over. Make room
for more. My mother is joining.
Dear mother, there is space for you.
Do bones fight? Dear father, you died
on the twenty-second day of the omer,
in the week of irony. There are fifteen
psalms of ascension, but I never get through
all of them. Dear fifteen, you are only half
of God’s name, but maybe that’s enough.
And to the department of important dates,
the moon is your clerk, she hides from us.
And to the keeper of time, the sun is obedient.
I stand in the shade. I want to get away
from you. And to the stars, you are a map
drawn by ghosts. And to the conductor
of this dry day, we are confused. I am
confused. Take back your strings, your bow.
I have only one good deed to give you.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 1.
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