I stood with the commandments, 
followed them to the letter. I hid 
who I was – hitchhiked through churches
looking for a handout of spirit, 

a whiff of G-d riding on the swing 
of incense in a thurible,
hiding the smoke of shoplifted cigarettes.

I kneeled at the altar of the toilet, 
trying to be thinner, to shed the weight
of guilt, to blend in with all those sinners –

my lighter friends in their plaid skirts
eating fish dinners on Fridays,
handing over their wrongdoings
in the Sunday confessional. 

In my fourth-grade photo I wore two chains: 
a cross and a silver Star of David
and believed I had it covered.

I circle among my dead, 
trying not to neglect anyone.
What can I say of those 
I have never known?
Even my mother eludes me, 
her mind ever hidden 
in shadows. We all flee
when we imagine danger, 
acquiring a taste 
for what can be carried,
the weight of the unrisen. 

*honoring the dead

To wash dust from jagged leaves
I turn the hose on the hibiscus. 
Shriveled flowers fall to dirt,
water drips into soil, roots
reach for a sip, when suddenly
a moth, its rusty wings heavy
with moisture, fanning the same water 
into steam, flutters to the earth,
damned while new buds open.
Some feel my intentions as mercy, 
others nearly drown.