The cycle of water is a lot like the Torah. 

Even though my mom spent years pushing me into synagogues and correcting my Hebrew, it wasn't until I turned nineteen and picked up a nasty nicotine habit that I really started to believe in G-d. I don’t like to romanticize smoking, but there's something about it that feels intimately religious. I mean, you could say the same thing about brushing your teeth every morning. Lorca says the true struggle is with duende and that duende won’t appear if /he/ can’t see the possibility of death. Maybe G-d feels the same way. In the Torah, G-d’s love for humanity is the strongest when we’re on the brink of destruction. This is most apparent in the story of Noah’s Ark, where G-d sends a great flood as an act of divine retribution to cleanse humanity in preparation for rebirth. I am fascinated and disturbed by Noah’s story, especially as it is nearly impossible to find a creation mythology that doesn’t include a great and destructive flood. Is it really fair to kill everyone and everything in order to start again? I’m not sure. It reminds me of the character Sethe in Beloved who can only protect her daughter from slavery by killing her. It seems that sometimes, the love G-d has for humanity is too thick. 

After the flood, Noah and his family survive and procreate. G-d promises to never ever again bring such a violent end to G-d’s creations. G-d even sends Noah the first rainbow as a sign of their covenant. Throughout the Torah, the motif of heavy rain and long droughts are repeated to represent G-d’s power and conflicting emotions. When G-d is pleased with the Israelites, G-d sends rain. If the Israelires are in the wrong location, G-d will put them in a drought to make them move somewhere else. Sometimes, G-d will even send bread raining from the sky so the Israelites can eat. Rain is necessary for survival, but too much rain can also destroy life. It’s a strange cycle that must be perfectly balanced in order for life to continue. 

Many of my poems use images of rivers, rain, clouds and deserts to represent the duality between and the spherical nature of birth and rebirth, but the two poems that directly address these themes are “Three Recollections on my Encounters with Clouds” and “Three Recollections on my Encounters with Droughts.” The first poem, “Encounters with Clouds,” is really much more about droughts than it is about rain -- “in the field/beyond half torn barns/and barbed-wire fences/the roots of an oak tree/reach for the frail river.” Conversely, “Encounters with Droughts” has much more to do with rain -- “Videos of river/banks bursting/like veins/Shattering roads/barging into homes/carrying cars five miles/down the stream.”  The two poems are in conversation with each-other, and they speak on both the destruction that is inherent with (too much) rain and with (a too long) drought. But both poems also end with hope and renewal. “Encounters with Clouds” ends with an approaching rainstorm on the eve of Yom Kippur, “a september nightmare/- rain landing on hot asphalt /cracking glass/brief drops of jewels -/the sounds of a new year.” The possibility of both resurrection and annihilation hang in the air.

Three Recollections on My Encounters with Clouds 

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(i) 

We were lost 

together 

in the desert

with only the 

sky’s silhouette 

like a diamond 

on the brink

of combustion

to distract us  

The clouds hung

above our heads 

without fuss and i

without commiting 

themselves

Growing large 

and melting together 

casting shadow some 

that shielded us

from the angry heat 

of the mid-summer sun

We danced with 

the clouds as 

we were 

continuously lost 

in the desert  

I thought i saw

rivers tucked 

into corners

Visions of

fireflies or fairies   

dancing together too

(ii)

You point out 

the weeds grow 

are growing 

into a telephone wire 

A snake-like silhouette  

against a bloodshot sky 

And in the field

beyond half torn barns 

and barbed-wire fences 

the roots of an oak tree 

reach for the frail river 

We hadn't planned

for any hold-outs 

or stored away 

wheat for fear of 

sour land 

We waited for 

storm clouds 

to peak over 

the hazy horizon 

I felt the last

breath of childhood 

leaving me

smelling like rye 

bread and a pack 

of marlboro reds

(iii) 

I once heard a rabbi say

when i walk, 

i feel as though 

my feet 

are praying

so i’ve been praying lately on 

the williamsburg bridge 

Headed towards clouds 

miles away 

brooding in a misty mix 

of black and blue 

A september nightmare

- rain landing on hot asphalt 

cracking glass

brief drops of jewels -

the sounds of a new year

Three Recollections on my Encounters with Droughts 

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(i.)

Have I ever told you 

your eyes 

bear a startling 

resemblance 

to my father’s? 

Both pairs remind me 

of poker chips and 

cactus sap

They remind me of that 

western folk-tale 

my father used 

to tell me

where the singing cowboy 

loses his horse

and all his gold

over a bad hand 

and a game of

Texas-Holdem 

Then the cowboy 

goes crazy drinking 

cactus juice

He could no longer 

afford any water

which was steadily

rising in value 

as the ground turned 

pitted and black

(ii.)

Of course

even a river village 

must suffer through 

a drought or two

I remember 

last spring

you called to tell me

the Llano river 

finally flooded

ending a decade 

of decay

I remember the 

videos you sent me

that first day 

when the 

clouds broke     

And I remember 

the videos you sent me 

a week later

when the rain

lingered over 

leathery ground

Videos of river 

banks bursting 

like veins 

Shattering roads 

barging into homes 

carrying cars five miles 

down the stream 

By the end of the week 

twenty-eight were 

missing or dead 

(iii.)    

I can’t imagine 

how it felt for 

the clouds

to hold in their rain 

for so long--

each year heavier 

and colder than 

the year before

And then to 

finally let go?

I bet it felt 

like forgiveness. 

Like how a 

hearth feels 

when its splinters

move to spark

and then 

spark to resin

and then finally 

resin to ash. 

Unable to prevent 

or perhaps 

unconcerned with

destruction that is

inherent in a 

letting go 

of that size 

I don’t know 

how the storm felt 

but I know that 

it left as passively 

as a newborn dove 

Filling 

no 

overflowing 

for a week 

then gone 

And I know 

that since last 

spring 

it hasn't 

rained once 

in the river country