shekhina

shekhina

This is my last stab, I assure you. 
We don't do incense, profusion.
We don't even do vowels. You can't
read until you know how to read.
Then you must sing. We worship
a book that is not a book, we
carry it like a child in our arms,
dress it, kiss it goodnight.

Once I thought you yourself were
the mystical shape of the godhead,
all emanation. And you, you thought
I was the better Jew. I loaned you
books and said I'd take you to shul.
But that was the year of the funeral.
I should have stepped on that black
hat. I should have shouted. I read
psalms to my roommate in the hospital,
my rabbi came and sang to me, she 
put her hands on my forehead, but you
did not come. I never took you anywhere
after that. Every week I stood to say
kaddish, and every week it bleached me.
At the end I had no arguments left,
I could no longer stand on one foot 
or the other. I sat and cried and
my god was as silent as the silent 
prayers of those around me. In
the sanctuary I am like a victim,
returning. I flee, but I am followed.

And now the Shekhina has chased me down
to Mexico, a skeleton dressed as a woman,
a woman dressed as a man, a god dressed
as a mountain, as a moon. She plays
la loteria, puts down el corazone. 
She is paring my heart like an apple
and she demands that I return.

— Amy Isikoff Newell, February 2016