It is so hot outside
I keep trying to peel off layers of my skin
Anything to get cool
Anything to escape.
Even the Hudson River looks refreshing
In heat as tantalizing as this one.
Tattooed on the hand
Of the guy on the bus
It says:
“Don’t become a
Victim of your own
Compassion.”
At times writing feels like pulling weeds
From a garden wilting in my mind
The ache of the retrieval
The burrowing, the searching.
It’s Elul now
And that’s supposed to mean something
Sitting on unwashed sheets
I try to imagine
The chill of rebirth
But instead,
I breathe,
And I think I smell smoke.
And I think I smell growth.
I water gardens of dandelions,
You can tell me all you want,
That they are meant to be killed
I know a flower when I see one.
When I am written
In the book of life
I hope G-d remembers
My compassion.
But if she doesn’t,
The dandelions will.
Rebecca/Becca (she/her) has been spending a lot of time wondering if she would be able to write more if it were not so hot out. This poem reflects on times when it is hard to find meaning in Elul and to remember that the year concludes whether we are prepared for it or not. She is not prepared. Becca does casework at an older adult center and is working on her Master’s in mental health counseling. She is published in New Voices Magazine, the New Orleans Public Library Summer Fun Adult Writing Contest, and Rutgers Writing House. In her free time, she enjoys making wishes on dandelions even though it makes her sneeze. She lives on the Lower East Side of New York City.
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