Who Shall Live and Who Shall Live?

These are two Yom Kippur poems I wrote two years apart. The one on top is from just before Yom Kippur 2023. After two long years, the one below it, from 2025, is very different.

A Yom Kippur Poem
(2023)

Who shall live by harmonizing with the heavens, raising her vibration to sync with the sounds of the stars?

And who by singing a new song until it becomes a familiar song and then a memory?

Who shall live by breathing in the sea air while the waves kiss her toes, and come back to kiss them again?

And who by blowing bubbles of breath, beautifully shimmering in the light until they pop…pop…pop?

Who shall live by streaking her face with tears and biting her nails short to ease the pain she cannot name?

And who by prayer, “Please don’t turn off the electricity, please help me find a filling meal for my child, please send help for a better tomorrow?”

Who shall live by losing her balance as the Earth quakes beneath her feet and the rubble takes her into its nest?

And who by painting herself into a new scene with old acrylics and recycled paper and a brand new dream?

Who shall live by falling through a hole in the safety-net-that-should-have-been and raising her voice in fear and in fury?

And who by sitting on soft pine needles with creative spiders and busy ants and a circle of women who support her?

Who shall live by sewing, one stitch at a time, a patchwork quilt of colors — the warms, the colds, the muted, and the bolds?

And who by adding a pinch of salt, and handful of chocolate chips, the smell of fresh cookies, anticipating, tasting the sweetness?

Who shall live by lifting a shovel and using the dirt to cover her father or mother or significant other?

And who by gifting her final exhale to the wind and releasing her no longer needed body to the ground, so that it may support the growth of more life

and more life 

and more life?

Atonement
(2025)

I'm sorry. 

I know that I've hurt you. 

Not once, not twice, not three or even a thousand times, 

but more times than you can count.

More times than even I can count. 

I'm sorry.

I would like to defend myself, but I won't. 

I would like to explain myself, and I will. 

But not now. 

When you ask me why 

-- you will, you do -- 

I will try to explain.

But it will not be enough. 

I know.

So today I am just here to say I'm sorry. 

I'm sorty for each and every time that you feel pain. 

I'm sorry for each and every time that you suffer. 

I'm sorry for every disappointment, 

every loss, 

every tear, 

every fear. 

Every scream. 

I'm with you in your sorrow.

I know that may not console you. 

I'm not here to promise you that it will be better or different 

or hurt less. 

I can't make that promise. 

I know that there is 

anger 

and destruction 

and violence 

and cruelty... 

and that this hurts. 

So. Very. Much. 

I'm sorry. 

You don't have to forgive me. 

I see that you are hurting. 

I see that you are suffering. 

And I'm truly, sincerely, deeply 

(will you allow me to say lovingly?) 

sorry.

- God