Thin down, hollow
out.
Give away your fruit
to the wandering Shekinah
who comes to dwell
in the meadows of your flesh.
Wherever her naked feet touch,
gashes open,
secret wounds ripen,
exuding the fragrance
of their own healing.
Her absence
was the deepest wound of all.
You sang of it in summer light
and thought you were happy.
Voices bled until she appeared,
hungry, ordinary, poor.
Now celebrate the withering
of old stories.
Your land is ripple and reflection,
a shattered mirror of loam,
grape and plum clusters
left unplucked
on the margins where
strangers appear, their faces
your own.
The cost of communion?
You are not just you.
In the sukka, the sound
of weeping.
All around you the crushing
of the wine dance.
You were a wanton sower
scattering seed in the furrow
between thoughts,
extravagantly wasting
dark energy,
almost everything.
Now see what you have done.
Eight billion children,
one mother.
Feed them.
On the Feast of Sukkot, scripture commands the Hebrews to celebrate the Autumn wine harvest by partying for seven days, living out in the fields, in huts built of vines and leaves. They are to glean their harvest carelessly, leaving fruit on the edges of the field for wanderers. And after the feast, they must fill these huts (Sukkoth) with food for the hungry and unhoused.
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