Omer, interrupted
Calling all angels

Another mother poem: carry this in your pocket


For the sake
of your sternum
rising and falling,
the deep folds
in your thighs,
your peach fuzz
beneath my palm
the whole world
was created

every domino
tipping the next:
my young father
playing the bugle
and flirting with
his movie star
at summer camp,
paper cigar ring
on her finger --

every thing leads
to you standing
in the exersaucer
on your tiptoes
damp fists clenched
humming to yourself
in a language
which only God
can understand

This week's mother poem takes its title from the Hasidic parable about the rabbi who carried two slips of paper in his pockets, one which read "for my sake was the world created" and the other which read "I am dust."

I don't know how long I'm going to continue writing weekly poems about my experience of motherhood, but so far I feel like I'm only beginning to plumb these depths. Motherhood, like Torah, strikes me as the sort of subject about which one could write pretty much forever. At some point I'll probably return to writing weekly Torah poems, but not yet; for now, new motherhood is still looming large in my emotional and spiritual life, and I'm not sure I could manage to write poems right now about anything else.