Mikveh
מקווה
There is a cistern
on the synagogue’s roof
and a drain pipe in the wall
leading to a small basement pool.
There are two witnesses, a rabbi
and one not-yet-Jew.
They are all women.
No one feigns modesty.
The convert waits
naked and trimmed,
no minerals on the skin,
shadow down the drain.
There is no magic in plain water.
All the exile of the world
comes from the back of the tongue.
Give a palate enough dirt
and it will soil on its own.
The choke of someone unused
to eating dirt
is quieter than it should be.
However loud, there is no one around.
Maybe there is an ancestor to listen.
Certainly somewhere is a child
who would not recognize this building
unless it were on fire.
Learning to read from engravings
on blackened stones,
what would you do
when presented a book?
Do not mistake the rabbi
for the one who condemns.
Damnation is often
a personal choice.
Witnesses turn toward the empty pool,
the convert curls her toes.
She may think this drowning
is all that’s left
but there is no magic
in plain water.
This is a ritual
not a spell.
The words
are less important:
“Ghetto was first our island.
When we entered the ocean,
whether to bathe
or to drown,
we always knew which shore
we’d wash up on.
“We taught our children
to tuck stars under their shirts.
Our god let the slaves die
in the desert
and we called it mercy.
We only fell in love
with those who knew
how to run.”
She doesn’t look up,
doesn’t nod,
takes the smooth steps
into the pool
and pauses to breathe
before pulling her hair under
and lifting her feet
so it’s water only
all around.
Source: Poetry (October 2019)