I. The fast

We rise for the Viddui;

blood rushes to my head.

We beat our chests for each transgression.

Punish the heart, where lust lies.

The body is the instrument.

Teshuva, returning, asking for forgiveness.

Doubt, they say, is actually the only reason we have faith.

I think of your hands on my ribs, your teeth on my lip.

The only reason?

The want, the ache–it’s stuck like seeds in my teeth.

For someone who doesn’t believe,

I seem to find God everywhere.

II. The seeds

I watch the sun slowly lower itself,

counting the hours until the fast can be broken,

standing in the kitchen picking a pomegranate.

This is done gently, this is done slow.

There are 613 seeds,

And you are to find them all.

Have patience, have mercy.

Feel the hunger, sit with the affliction.

Handle the body, the blood,

the soil, the sweat.

This is done in silence and in stillness.

Just your hands and the fruit.

I’m starving, and I miss you.

It’s lust, it’s gluttony;

it’s all red.

It hurts, but it breaks all at once.

Every year I slip up and eat before sundown.

I mess up again

before I’m even done repenting.

I’m sorry for wanting,

that all I do is want

and want

and want.

God’s watching.

God decides when to save.