The sixth day turns and the sun dips low, sanctifying each mushroom.
I race the waning light through your forest,    oh Malke,     oh queen.

You retell each day of the week:
how you conversed with the rosemary, the rosemary with the soil, the soil with the dead,
the dead with hakadosh barukh hu¹, petitioning to guide me here, this fragrant field
where tall grasses hide the roses I drop at your feet.

Among the goldenrod, I know I’ve arrived
when you spoon honey in my mouth. You banish the scarcity of time
...and it was morning²—oak bedposts and unscrolling.
Field and gaze, wind palming cheeks like coins unspent. Trailing fingers over dried
milkweed husks. Left undisturbed, the day tilts, my cup overflows³. Already, the rising
moon’s reflection becomes a bath for braided flame.

I cling as you recite tkhines⁴, my arms wrapped around your shoulders.
You bow and bend, shuckling like a willow.         I would be your lulav⁵ if you let me,
I whisper into your braids. Yet, you end your supplications with a brokhe⁶ for my journey.

I bless you with a backwards glance, your long dress full of pockets,
deep pockets full of nettles, dry nettles full of dust.

—

^title Shabbos is the Jewish day of rest. G!d holds the title of “First One to Observe Shabbos” in recorded history, as it says, g!d rested on the seventh day of creation. Later, g!d gave the Jewish people the commandments of Shabbos. The 16th century Kabbalistic prayer “Lekha Dodi” refers to going out to the fields Friday evening, to greet Shabbos as a bride, a practice which dates back to Talmudic sources. Shabbos is also described as a queen/malke.
¹ Name for g!d
² “And it was evening, and it was morning.” This refrain is repeated in the first chapter of Beresheit/Genesis to describe each day of creation. Based on this, Jewish days begin at sundown.
³ From Psalm 23. Multiple blessings over wine or grape juice are said on Shabbos.
⁴ Yiddish prayers, typically said and sometimes written by women.
⁵ Palm leaves, gathered for the holiday of Sukkot to represent the spine. The palm leaves are shaken together along with willow, myrtle and citron.
⁶ Blessing.

teeth chattering in Kislev’s¹ cold I begin to undress for bed     but tangle
my shabbos bride approaches from behind     draws the white cloth over my head
she wraps her arms around my shoulders             bare she rocks me
                                                                                                            grief waxes in my chest like a moon
which is to say a calendar     I want to shake my mother’s yahrzeit² out of the sky & I try
to say I have not been moved in so long but my teeth turn pebble
                                                                                                                pu pu pu³
she bends down             to the floorboards     pockets these tiny omens⁴
    I rest by your parents’ graves             on my journey home
               each week she explains             I had not known
            you are not a graveyard             you are a mikve
she sticks a finger in my mouth             the greasy chicken
                                                                                                bone legs of my house
                                                                                                    shake when she
                                                                                                withdraws                         tahor⁵

—

^title Ritual preparing bodies of the dead for burial
¹ Winter month in a Jewish calendar, during which Hanukkah falls
² Anniversary of death
³ Onomatopoeia said, or literally spit, to ward off the evil eye
⁴ Many Jews leave small stones at a grave, out of remembrance for the dead
⁵ Roughly translates to "ritually pure"

I go out into the field to greet
my bride        who doesn’t show
mercury glows maybe she left
late maybe she didn’t make it
in time attacked by bandits
quicksand lost track of time
maybe she left maybe bandits
stole my heart and ran away
with the dough        after
months of braiding our limbs
together         the lack flattens
me out         what if I can’t
rise from my bed without her?
the second week she doesn’t
come                 I queer another
mitzvah       that is to say   perform
my electric shabbos prayer upon
the bimah¹ of my bed     grasp full
fists of sheets                 my muksah
yearning ascends on high

—

^title Muksah (adj.) describes something forbidden on Shabbos (the Jewish day of rest), especially prohibited types of work. Turning on electrical circuits is muksah.
¹ Central platform of the synagogue, like a stage

                          “...in [the month of] Tishri, at the time of the autumnal equinox, the great bird Ziz flaps
                          his wings and utters his cry, so that the birds of prey, the eagles and the vultures, blench,
                          and they fear to swoop down upon the [tame animals] and annihilate them in their greed.”

                          “...Ziz is a delicacy to be served to the pious at the end of time.”

                                                              — Legends of the Jews, Rabbi Louis Ginzberg (1909)

                          “Arise, escape from the midst of the chaos...”

                          “And far distant will be those who would devour you.”

                                                              — from the Sefaria Community Translation of “Lekha
                                                                  Dodi,” Shlomo HaLevi Alkabetz’s 16th century liturgical poem

you forest-floored me, Malke,

                  removed the hunter’s snare cleaved to scaly foot—scaly foot mine—a tiny
                  winged me captivated in your cupped hands. I gazed up at your moonface.
                  staring into your nostrils         yearning to pluck moonhairs & weave a delicate
                  blanket for your thumb stroking my head. all week, you spooned nettle
                  stew down my beak. you told me     to find love, you must be open to it.
                  I held my wings close, as if to foigl is to pray. I plotted to heal, to hunt
                  for beads, to drop them in your pockets, to sing to you an every evening
                  song, a bone broth song for forest lovers, for love found like yellowleaf
                  caught in a boiling pot.

                  by late friday afternoon, my heart knew something good was brewing
                  & not just on the stove. you stirred as you sang I must prepare to greet
                  my bride.         the sun slipped in the sky.         you placed me in the
                  shoebox by the window sill, neshika¹ to my forehead then you left.

                  I watched you gather the garden into a fistfull of herbs. you ran towards
                  the sun, sinking into the forest, & the moon rose eagerly & your candles
                  burned to two blue flickers & those flickers circled in the sconce & just
                  when their dance flamed bright, they disappeared & still you did not return.

                                    once I was a great bird, putting dreamers
                                    to shame with my wingspan. I only meant
                                    to leave a lover mean like winter, fly home
                                    before the ground froze. instead I shrunk
                                    so small, when you found me, a mere
                                    hunter’s catch. as if all I needed were
                                    soup & time, diminutive me,
                                    & you, you, you.

                  on the fifth repetition of this dudele², when I wished I had more to loan you,
                  more to shake out of my bones than an every evening song, the door
                  swung open to laughter. two brides embraced in the threshold, adorned
                  with fragrant crowns of rosemary & roses, sage & goldenrod. you touched
                  me like a muksah feygele³—only to feed & water. shushing when I asked
                  where you’d been.

                  one week you returned alone, said nothing to me.         no brides, no songs.

                  all summer I bittered, plotting how I would care for you, bring you shiny beads,
                  tuck your hair behind your ear with my pointy beak. that shabbos bride! who
                  are they to come & leave?! who are they? must be better more full of blood
                  more meat more bones—what if all I am is bones? what if all you want
                  is meat? I stew. last thursday, you said why don’t you sing for me little bird?
                  I asked you will I be stuck so small in your life? I did not ask do you love me?
                  you went back to braiding challah.

                  at the head of the year I dreamt of my mother who said         you must argue.
                  for the sake of heaven         she said. for the sake of getting to the bottom
                  of what is bothering you. dig up your buried, tangled kishkes⁴;
                  you’ve ignored them far too long.

                                    once I was a wild beast⁵,
                                    putting wingspans
                                    to shame with my dreams.

                  motzei shabbos⁶, I peck at the window til it shatters. a beshert⁷ will cup
                  their hands around yours as you cradle slimy guts. I pull my wings from
                  within the chaos, leave a trail to measure the growing distance from those
                  who would devour me & in my freedom,

I blot out the stars.

—

¹ Hebrew for kiss
² Yiddish song adressing g!d as the informal you
³ Yiddish for "little bird", the diminutive of foigl (bird); feygele has been a perjorative term for gay men, reclaimed by some queer people of all genders ⁴ guts
⁵ “That bird is called ziz sadai, wild beast,” from Bava Batra 73b:7 (c.450 - c.550 CE)
⁶ Saturday evening, the leaving of Shabbos
⁷ soulmate