December
2, the day my visa expired.
*** I have noted since this poem's composition that the Hebrew acronym for the number 23 is in fact
כ"ג So, please don't mind this silly mistake and take it as numbers 2 and 3... therefor ב"ג
ה' נרות של חנוכה
*** I have noted since this poem's composition that the Hebrew acronym for the number 23 is in fact
כ"ג So, please don't mind this silly mistake and take it as numbers 2 and 3... therefor ב"ג
The
Hebrew acronym for my year is
ב"ג
,
So
I
leaned back into my mind
and
swept through the racks of my spontaneous affiliations
and
thought...
Ben
Bag Bag,
a
Sage
Receiver
palm-to-face
Arguer,
that
fits right?
With
a sigh, I crank the corner of my mouth in doubt.
I
can't be bothered to research him,
ponder
his significance and
how-on-earth
he
may be a presence in this year of my life.
Quite
frankly,
his
name sounds ridiculous.
I'm
taking 10 steps back into simplicity
by
dropping the Hebrew
[even
though that is
the
holy point].
Vwala.
This
is the year of bags.
The
year of exhausting myself silly with
bag
bag
gage
say
it again
baaa
gaaage
(yea,
protrude your jaw on that snobby gee
at
the end)
This
is the year of
loading
the luggage
pulling
the carriage
{falsely}
anticipating marriage
trying
to open that goddamn package
that
was never sent to me in the first place.
This
is the year that I
flushed
fear and guilt and indignation
into
my bag
strapped
it on my shoulders
and
started climbing up
Up
and
up until
cupid
shanked me
and
down I fell
emotional
muck spilled all over the floor
and
I cried over it.
23
is the year God showed me I had mispacked my ב’ג
