Walking to Synagogue on Yom Kippur
in the unaltered neighborhood of my childhood
and I thought, how I long to see
an angel. I thought, how I long to cross over
into purity. Across the street,
a woman with her daughter
waved at me, and called out, Maya, how are you?
and before I could recall her name, the daughter
said: Who is Maya? and I thought, She’s not an angel.
Again the girl said, Who is Maya?
and I thought, that is the question
I should be asking myself today,
and she kept asking, Who is Maya?
and I thought, Maya
means magic, or illusion in Sanskrit. Why
did my mother name me illusion
in Sanskrit? In synagogue
I recited the ancient words of the sacred prayer:
“Let us now relate the power of this day’s holiness”
and thought
Was my mother an angel before I was born?
and said
“Angels will be frenzied”
and thought
that girl doesn’t care who Maya is
and said
“A trembling and terror will seize them”
and thought,
that girl just wants to know how it is possible
her mother has a life that doesn’t include her.
* * * * *
A Rock Is Not a Stone
“[N]o things but in the sounds of the words representing them.
A rock is not a stone. But why is a rock not a stone?”
– Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook
There was a rock
in my breast,
not a stone.
It was a rock
that was thrown,
not a stone,
by young David.
It struck Goliath
between the eyes.
Just a stone’s throw
from boy to King,
but it must have begun with
a pouch of stones
gathered for other purposes, I imagine,
for instance, him humming along
a narrow river searching
for stones to skip
along the banks,
where still those
rare flat precious stones
are eyed, desired,
like I desire to overturn
every stone,
smooth myself over,
un-rock what’s been rocked,
sing notes
of stones
un-thrown.