Consciousness: A cartographer
shaping the shores of my life like shins
scraping up against pavement. Time
itching to pass. A cycle of unvarying
tidal inlets. I’m left with loose
pages of oxygen, cured in salt.
More commentary than map. My scars,
an atlas I can’t disarm.
I can’t help but beach read years
at a time between busying myself
with God as He’s weeping
mad honey from gouged eyes.
I’ve been made to feel small by my tears.
Like Samson, I rid myself.
I stand for Mourner’s Kaddish to practice
my pronunciation. I avoid eyes
at synagogue like I’m on the subway,
lest the Lord discern my face from my commute
Then what, tell me:
does He barge into my life to weep in circadian rhythm?
Does He orchestrate how much I can set fire to
& still breathe?
In the absence of gravity,
fire orbs.
I press my lips to the sky
that swallowed my ancestors.
I leave ash on my lover’s ear,
whispering: yes, even there.
by Chaim ben Avram
Chaim ben Avram’s poetry appears in Image Journal, Oxford Poetry, Denver Quarterly, Ilanot Review, West Branch, Tin House, and others. His hybrid work, Spiral Jetty: A Novel, is due out from 7.13 Books in 2027.
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