Holiness lessons
Looking forward to a Shabbat in Buffalo

Mother's Day


It's a year of firsts
and most of them hurt.

Hallmark doesn't sell a card
designed to be burned

so smoke can ascend
to reach the afterlife.

And why didn't I save
every card you ever sent me

so I could reopen them now?
I miss your handwriting.

I kick myself now
for every deleted voicemail.

When I remember earth
thudding onto the wooden box

futility claims my heart
and won't let go.