Two Poems

Tashlikh

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The river isn’t looking at you. She’s looking at me. 

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On my knees, scrubbing the entryway,

mud on cracked, tessellated 

tile.

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Light mezuzah,

flower and pomegranate, marble white,

soft blue, cochineal silk,

tucked behind the door.

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Mydriasis,

dark stones beneath

                crisp, flowing water.

         Saturday, I’ll bring a poisoned vial to the bank

         and pour it like bath oil—

             sweet almond, jojoba seed.

         Sink in 

             slowing water

         and forget 

         the old house, the students living below,

              tired radiator hum,

              rough weeds,

              early Summer,

              early Fall.

She’s looking at me like

two candles burning,

             curtains pulled shut. 

‍

‍

In Peace

‍

B’shalom

      and I wonder

      and I wonder

‍

would it be okay if I came home

‍

like water

like water

like water