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Yaffa

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 Yaffa Avigayil F In the softest shades of black and grey   The little girl rests in her father’s arms Astride the left breast of his charcoal-colored suit Checkered dress and mary-janes rounding Small toes Which swing in the air Her long, wispy hair disappears into his cropped tuft Slender arms reach out From white-capped sleeves One small hand wrapped around his neck The other folded in his firm grip Square jaw and rounded chin Gaze solemnly into the camera As two rows of trees converge in the distance On the open road   Their matching, Round, protruding ears Cannot hear the marching boot-steps Which will trample their pastoral quietude   I wonder if his wife snapped the photo Tzipporah And if her voice chirped like the bird she was named for As she called, “Moshe, Yaffa! Turn around and look at the camera!” And if she ever thought about that airy openness And the way the trees fanned out behind them As they huddled together in darkness Or when they again blinked sunlight On the da
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Approaching Manhattan at Night

  Approaching Manhattan at Night Avigayil F Approaching Manhattan at night Hovering over water Darkness surrounds A city lying dormant All twinkling lights and soaring heights Like an astronaut looking down on that small, earth jewel— Once they walked those streets Slush seeping through the soles of their boots Now it hangs in the porthole, Floating in its void, Its smallness and its brightness Like a prize marble, tucked away
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Human

  Human Avigayil F “Prove to them that you are human,” they said. They will like you more if you do that for them– Cut your heart out from your skin, why not lift it up before their glowing eyes? Let them watch your ventricles contract and squeeze and bathe your palms red. When they drink the blood that drips from your fingers, you will be happy because they know that you are human.
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Quiet Jacob

  Quiet Jacob Avigayil F   The world did not want him— And so, he draped himself in his brother’s skin; He left his father’s home; Learned slyness from his uncle — Underneath, his own skin crawled.   At first, he dreamt of angels, a ladder of endless potential, rungs climbing towards the Heavens. Later, he dreamt of sheep, of baser, earthly things. “Don’t be afraid,” he was told, Because he was—afraid.   He was not the boy he had once been: He learned to raise his voice. He learned to make demands. Once, he'd been known for his gentle words; The softness of his speech had almost blown his cover.   The world did not want his sweetness. The world did not want his innocence. Jacob longed for the tents of his youth.   Inspired by the song יעקב התמים
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Poem 16 - "In Years Hence"

In Years Hence Avigayil Rosensweig They thunder down the street, all lean and erudite. Barking laughter bears teeth almost carnivorous; they hunger for wisdom. But there is too much energy in their step, the hair too black on their heads. They catch it, instead, as it emanates from him, swirls around his presence like fireflies— which they enfold in their palms, store inside their selves. In later years to reach in, scoop out, faces soft with nostalgia and the luminescence cupped inside their hands, delighted how bright it still glows. They will reminisce to children or students, Running a hand through thinning hair: “My rebbi once said…” (Once, I knew a great man) When he speaks, they fall silent. Thirty-five folding chairs scrape across the floor, a chisel mark in the soft grain of memory. When they pray, their voices, deep-throated, rumble through the house up to the rooftop, except in some parts— Only one boy says ka
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Poem(s)14 - Six Haikus

Six Haikus Avigayil Rosensweig Snow Past Dark Half moon window dark Snow sleets unseen except in penumbra of lamp The Plain Meaning Hand strokes beard, wool-white "They said, ' but the plain meaning.' For ' and ' I would stay." Central Park Statue Squirrel stiff on park bench Eye like glass, muscles quiver Startled--leaps--scampers Lu'lei D'mistifina "I would disagree Did I not tremble to dare" And then he argued Dust Storm Sand settles on cars We draw pictures on windows Clear grit with fingers Not Enough One sound words they are short not hard to work with but do not quite say en--   
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Poem 13 - "Spring Comes Late"

Spring Comes Late Avigayil Rosensweig Here's to boys playing Settlers of Catan On Shabbos afternoon The first scruff of manhood on their chins Who flick dice with intensity Build settlements of miniature wood Their land, to grow and defend Small enough to be encircled By two thumbs and an index finger The world yawns outside A gaping, lurking wonder Within these cardboard edges Four brick are traded for grain And to girls walking in pairs Eyelids glittering with day-old makeup Skirts swirl around their knees Hair drifts against shoulder blades As they stride, languid with the fullness of youth Air sweet with the promise of honeysuckle Voices perfume the air with eager thoughts The trees, still bare, raise their arms To a pale sky The girls' hands flutter like leaves The afternoons long Middays golden and evenings blustery The earth thawing, the sky blue-white Green shoots latent beneath dirt Furled buds swell on vines Everything teetering, on edg
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