À La Carte: Olam haBa
I’ve been awake so long that my computer
illuminates the wet of its reservoir
with a whisper:
The last time I was out on a Friday night I was
taking transit on shabbos.
It’s against halacha to kill yourself
so I’m waiting for Masada,
praying for a neighbour to pick my name–
To bleed out into sand,
a bone-red body dragged to Jerusalem.
But this is fine, this is close enough;
Thornhill will do.
The buildings dressed and minced as G-d-kept gates—
the synagogue down the street; the high school I avoided because I hated Jewish Girls my
age. The convenience store I still visit when I’m really fucking high.
Don’t separate me from the earth
(but please don’t make me leave my room
or make me get dressed).
Will this third beer cure me?
Hunched-over, asking in the language of
knotted and tired DNA,
What remains of my family?
I will not lift myself from this bed
until you beg for my forgiveness.
