Monday, July 16, 2018
Maps are floaty things. And not. To be exact. We say our coccyx was one time a
tail. Our sacrum the bone of resurrection. When a man stands at the edge of the
sea, when he walks, the weight of his legs falls upward, each leg in turn rejoining
the spine. Waves wave away from his ankles. When a man cranes over a book
the text gives way to his finger, his chant to the boy at his side. The boy squirms
on his elbows, his kippah crocheted from erosion and promise. It is a map when
given, the five books of Moses, no vowels, no trop. And a map when given back,
five fused vertebrae curved upward from earth. Moses is Moishe. My grandfather.
My son. We say bread we throw is a missed-mark once thrown. We say we're not
gone when we say here I am.