Carly Sachs
o
You began smaller than a raindrop.
A poppy seed, then an apple seed.
As you grow, you will be likened
to things in the natural world.
You are smaller than a crow’s eye,
the flames of the Sabbath candles,
and the stones we made into cairns
on our last day in Polol’u.
You are the equivalent of a few sprigs of rosemary,
a handful of salt crystals, a single coffee bean.
Nonetheless, I take you on walks so you can
hear the birds and I tell you their names, Robin, Bluejay, Cardinal.
There is so much I want you to remember.
I want you to love the sun and know warmth and light,
the delight of motion, of feeling your body in space.
In the mornings, our cats nestle in my lap against my belly
and I think they know you are there.
Bodies and souls are smart, my little one.
Mary Oliver wrote, let the body love what it loves.
You, not yet the size of the o,
will be the sound that births the word
into a depth we have only yet to imagine.
Jeff Schwartz
Postcard from the Coast
Before Covid, you pushed at all the boundaries—
signing up for tours from assisted living, calling a cab
to take Louise to fancy dinners, riding your scooter
to water therapy & 3-hour Sabbath services entirely in Hebrew.
You drove & drove yourself until you no longer could. When I
arrived after not seeing you for a year & a half, you were bare-chested
& shrunken in a hospital bed. Eyes open but not responding.
You waited until I got there & then hung around for two days
listening with me to Stan Getz & Debbie Friedman,
holding hands & whispering, it’s all right, it’s all right.
Where I am writing this, I can hear seals moaning
across the bay. It sounds like they are howling in grief
but maybe that’s just my perception. Maybe they are claiming
their territory and announcing to the world that they are alive.
