TIFERET Journal

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Metaphysical - Elisabeth Murawski For years now I’ve turned to you in doubt, like a charismatic opening the Bible, my finger drawn to the exact word where you’d speak to me in confirmation or warning. Forgive me. I haven’t always listened when I’ve asked you, John Donne, to undo the dark. Anoint my forehead. Guide my hand beyond pages that you’ve left to be my light. Bless my squinting third eye. Night Rain - Kuan Hsiu, translated by J.P. Seaton Night rain, the mountain grass is wet The many, the varied, withered trees, all piping a tune from Chuang Tzu: Idle, I’m chanting, a Buddhist, or is it a Taoist song? pure as, or purer than, jade. Because You Live So Fully In Your Soul Someone Is There to Meet Me -Tara Moghadam Because your hands can be invisible they go places unseen. Hands smooth as the scent of a lilac drive. I’m turning around this landscape. In this crowd the sun tunnels and sets before my eyes, you are speaking beside the fire. Just let me sit here, across the room. My belly understands everything. Already it has waxed and waned three times. See how the children have grown? No matter how deep the nails, you pry the boards free. I am left leaning against this threshold. They are left writing poems on their own. Yes, we need to make room to dance to make the prayer complete. Watching you drop your voice into all these people I’m reminded of dipping my feet in a cold mountain stream. I know they’ll keep you inside them always, the water contagious with light. Last night the lunar eclipse rang at the door. My daughter and I sat in the grass beside a tree. I knew you were watching too. Your hand at rest up there, blameless between the sun and moon. Soldier's Heart - Diane Bonavist My day began with two “tender mercies of the Lord,” as our scripture calls those unexpected visitations of grace. First, the coyotes. They came along the shoreline at daybreak, when the sky was like the head on a blackberry ice-cream soda, sniffed around the gazebo in front of the big salt box house, then loped off toward the laurel thicket. Coyotes roam over most of Cape Cod. I read about them at the local library, in the days before I caught a look at myself in the glass display case near Reference and knew I looked too reddened, too weathered. I’d seen that observation in the librarian’s eyes, too. Homeless. Except I’m not exactly; I’m a squatter. And like a junkie who thinks as long as he isn’t shooting up, he isn’t addicted, I think as long as I’m not living in a shelter, I’m not a homeless veteran. When I’m feeling bigheaded I can almost convince myself that I’m at least twice-removed from being a cliché because I’m squatting on a boat. All up and down the tidal river the summer homes are closed for the winter, their moorings empty, their big boats put in dry-dock. I’ve seen them in the marinas near town, shrink-wrapped in sheets of white laminate. They lie cradled like hapless diapered babies made to come out of the water. This place makes me want to weep with thanks that the world can contain such material abundance, and sorrow that it traps us, and distress that it is not mine. My life is anti-abundance, though not without blessings.

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