Linger Here
When this grief became rooted in life
She, my mother, said it’s best not to dwell
On such things. Not to push it away
But invite it in. Have it sat at the breakfast
Table in sunshine, with coffee and eggs.
At night feed it whiskey to keep warm.
This is the new routine you find,
Just as you would when moving to a new home.
Let it not dwell but invite it to linger,
You know the difference between the two.
Golem for My Grandmother
I don’t want my body
Tethered to wet earth
Where the flesh melts
Creating a new stagnation for the body
A body in the ground. In a coffin,
Waiting for time to tick faster.
What I wanted, has been left for you
To guess. Piece together what tradition
Has brought to you. At the seder plate,
At the altar, from the earth. I am a woman of
Many beliefs. In other words,
I don’t know what I believe.
It begins with ash and dust.
On the floor of an old home in Tampa.
I did not want the stagnation. I wanted to
Be brought back to life.
The hum of Spanish moss along
The oak tree in our front yard.
The clink of ice in a scotch glass.
That is what I want. That is what
I have to brought you.
del Prado
If I were to stay in Madrid
I should like to stare into the eyes
Of Saturn
He stands propped up by
crumbling dorics
Dust falling to the floor as he
Realizes what has collapsed
There is a silent scream that swells
Falling from his grisly face
I would ask him what it is like
Trapped on a blank canvas
Much like his namesake
Trapped in a decaying orbit
Would he still have the fear
of my battering eye unblinking
unblinking
As he packs his son into his
Jaw or
If he saw how heavy he stood
Against chipped marble
Would he still attempt as an overseer
If he stood where I stand now
Or would he see his portrait
And cower at the man before him
Golem in the Attic
Out of clay and out of earth
There is light spiraling, reaching
When god presents his
Gift of life
He did so with Adam
And Adam does so with chavah
So as not to face his creator
On his own
Out of clay and out of earth
I first learn to be human from the
Grains between my fingers, and
The soil under my nails.
I golem, was not born of clay and earth
To crush olive branches beneath my feet
Life was never breathed into me
So how could I hold the desire to steal it?
From the hands extended
Comes me.
A walking, unbreathing paradox.
Jude Rosen is a Syracuse based writer, poet, and self proclaimed “perpetual academic”. They are currently in school for their second Master’s degree and hoping to move forward into a PhD program. Jude has been published in a handful of literary journals including New Words Press, The Pitkin, and Coastlines. Outside of the writing, they have a fond love for coffee, hiking, and listening to their favorite records.
