Framing: 

Before my diagnosis, my body presented almost no apparent symptoms; to most people, I only seemed worn out and tired. I myself was unaware of what silently shifted under my skin. The news crashed into my life in a sudden, unimaginable instant—a shocking collision with something inconceivable to me in my mid thirties. It was a surreal revelation, positioning me in an unknown space between the person people still saw and the one I abruptly knew myself to be.

Even in the brief interval between writing these poems and their publication, illness, treatment, and the inescapable passage of days have continued to affect my body and relationship with the world. Through the lenses of Jewish tradition, mysticism, and personal experience, these poems exist in that tension and examine the precarious places between living and dying, the commonplace and the remarkable. Though anchored in my own lived experience, I'm hopeful they will also resonate with anyone whose reality has been altered by physical or mental illness, or anyone negotiating life's chaotic challenges and hidden griefs—as well as with those who love and care for them.

As with life, though there is hardship here, there is also humor—sometimes subtle, sometimes dark—fine filaments of joy and human connection, reminders that laughter, warmth, and light can still sneak into even our most difficult moments.

***********

A Body of Work 

The body is a scroll still unrolling, 

its lines pressed deep in sinew and breath. 

Each step, each grasp, each lifting of a cup— 

ink sinking into parchment, 

letter by letter, a living text. 

For now, the script holds firm. 

The hands still shape blessings, 

the legs still bear weight, 

the voice still rises in song. 

But already, the edges curl, 

the lines smudge, the letters blur, 

the strokes aren't as steady as before. 

They say to serve through the hands, through the feet—

through lifting, through labor, through steady steps forward.

But what of hands that swell, feet that falter, 

joints as stiff as rusted gates, 

muscles in knots too tight to undo? 

What of the mouth, once full of melodies, 

now parched, my prayers crackling like dry leaves?

What of the breath, once bold as a shofar, 

now unsteady as a flame guttering on spent wax,

feeding on the last threads of itself? 

The work changes, but it does not end. 

Once, I took the world in stride, held in my hands—

now I bear it in waiting, in patience, 

in the weight I carry even at rest. 

Even now, the body gathers light, 

even now, the work remains— 

not mine to finish nor forsake. 

Is this not also avodah, also service? 

To lay in this bed, to feel the body tighten, stiffen, strain,

to bear the waiting like the hush before Bar’chu,

to breathe in, as with the spices of Havdalah, 

their fragrance lingering even as the moment passes,

to breathe out and step forward into what comes next?

To stay, to withstand, to remain? 

What does it mean to serve, 

when the body loosens its grip on the world?

When avodah is not in the lifting, the walking,

but in swallowing pills that rewrite the blood,

in waiting for the next scan, the next verdict,

in measuring life between appointments? 

To lie here and bear it— 

the swelling, the dizziness, the hunger that isn’t hunger,

the taste of metal, the nausea that comes and goes,

the weight of exhaustion pressing from the inside out.

To wake up, like Yaakov by the river— 

bruised from the struggle, still unbroken, 

unsure if I will walk or even limp today. 

Is this not labor, too? 

To endure, to wait, to wonder how many more times

I will see the ones I love, hold them, laugh with them?

To count time not in years, but in remaining options,

in windows of feeling almost normal, 

before the body shifts again, before the medicine changes? 

I cannot dance—so let the fever be my fire. 

I cannot sing—so let my breath, raw and rusted,

rise like smoke curling toward the Infinite. 

Some wizened men with wiry beards, they spoke

of birur nitzotzos, of hidden sparks— 

like gold smelted from the fire, 

like bronze brought for the Mishkan’s gates.

They're waiting in the dust of the streets, 

in the crumbs of last week’s challah on a cracked plate,

in the worn-out shoe, the rotting fruit— 

the things left behind, overlooked, unseen. 

But what of the sparks in me? 

If ten could spare a city, 

can two still bring light to the darkness?

What of a body that, some day soon, 

can no longer rise for the Amidah, 

can no longer break bread, 

can no longer whisper the Shema 

without breath torn from it, 

like a seam split wide in mourning, 

a tear made not to be mended? 

Does the pain itself bear witness? 

Does the hunger, the thirst, the slow hollowing—

are these, too, vessels for the Name? 

They say to bless the bitter as well as the sweet.

Bless the wound, the weight, the wasting,

the splitting of cells like shattered glass. 

Bless the body’s slow undoing. 

And so I say it— 

Baruch atah… Blessed are You, 

the One who gives, 

the One who takes, 

the One who inscribes my name 

in the Book that never closes— 

where the righteous collect interest 

and every debt is remembered, 

but never quite paid in full. 

But the next parsha awaits, 

like Sarah’s laughter echoing in the tent, 

like water from Miriam’s well brimming in the desert,

like the last words Moshe wrote, unseen by any scribe.

Even these aches are folded into the text—

a sign that the journey does not end here. 

The days will draw in, 

my bones will bear a lighter burden, 

yet I will still slip a coin into a tin 

marked for a stranger’s relief. 

I will answer a phone that seldom rings, 

offering a word of comfort 

to someone who just needs one listener.

When the corridor of hours narrows,

I will lend my last ounce of warmth

to those who enter this room—

a visitor, a neighbor, an old friend,

their stories deserving an ear.

I will press a small prayer 

into the silence between us—

for a single spark can sustain a world. 

Let this be the avodah— 

If I can no longer stand, 

let me lean on a machlokes. 

If I can no longer lift my head,

let me still raise a question. 

If my final inhale has already passed,

let the debate continue without me. 

Let my final exhale be an Amen.

Love's Weight, Blessing's Burden 

You could have been Rivka at the well, 

drawing water only for yourself, 

unburdened, unbound, 

choosing your own road, 

with no weight to carry but the morning’s sun. 

You could have been Devorah beneath the palm,

ruling, deciding, leading alone, 

shaping a world with nothing to hold you back.

You could have been among the women of the Exodus,

timbrel in hand, stepping forward, 

never needing to turn around. 

You could have wandered like Avraham, 

gone wherever the wind called you, 

never looking back, 

never waiting to see if I was strong enough to follow. 

You could have lived untethered, 

unmarked by waiting rooms full of tired sighs,

by the hush of doctors murmuring numbers like verdicts,

by the slow count of good days— 

manna measured, never enough to last. 

Instead— 

Instead, you have become something else, 

something holier. 

Instead, you are Miriam at the waters, 

offering me life where there should have been none.

You are Rachel, weeping, 

carrying sorrow so I don’t have to. 

You are the pillar of fire in the darkness, 

leading me forward when I cannot see the way. 

Instead, you are the voice that says, 

"Ana Hashem hoshia na," 

"Please, God, save us,"

when I am too tired to ask. 

You are the hands slipping a coin into the tzedakah box,

not for your merit, but for mine. 

Instead of the life you could have built, 

you hold up the walls of this one, 

as Aharon and Chur held up Moshe’s arms,

knowing love is not only in the fighting 

but in the lifting, in the bearing, in the staying. 

Instead, you are Sarah laughing, 

not because the promise is easy, 

but because the whole thing is absurd— 

and still, you believe. 

And I cannot say if the life you left behind

would have been wider, 

brighter, 

fuller. 

I only know that this life— 

the one where you choose me 

again and again— 

is something vast enough to bless.

Things That Are Not Invitations 

"I had a great-aunt with cancer." 

And now I am holding a stranger’s ghost,

as if I asked for their dead to sit beside me,

as if their story is meant to be a map, 

but all the roads have already closed. 

"I read this article about fasting." 

As if hunger is something I haven’t met,

as if my body has not already learned 

to burn itself for fuel, 

as if deprivation can repair what was written

before I was born, 

etched in the blueprint of my bones. 

"You look good!" 

And I wonder if they mean for someone dying. 

"You should try to get outside more." 

As if fresh air can rewrite my marrow, 

as if sunlight can unspool the knots in my genome,

as if the Angel of Death will turn back,

confounded by vitamin D and a brisk walk. 

"You’re strong. If anyone can beat this, it’s you."

As if I am a Maccabee charging into battle,

as if gevurah alone could hold back the tide,

as if strength can mend the double helix

or stop the dividing cells from dividing again. 

"God only gives us what we can handle."

As if I was consulted, 

as if I signed the contract, 

as if suffering is a vote of confidence, 

as if din and chesed—justice and mercy—

can balance the scales perfectly, 

and in the end, the broken heart is still whole. 

Some people do not speak at all. 

They pull away like I am struck with leprosy,

as if proximity makes them vulnerable,

as if the sharp edge of my mortality, 

the blade of it dripping gall, 

might nick them on the way past, 

as if I have hung a red string on my door—

not to protect me, but to warn them. 

Others lean in too close, 

offering words that crumble in my hands,

offering solutions as if illness 

is just a problem waiting for the right fix. 

"Let me know if you need anything." 

And I almost ask for time, 

for certainty, 

for the simple mercy 

of being able to plan a future 

beyond the next appointment. 

But instead, I nod. 

I say thank you. 

I let them walk away 

feeling lighter, 

as if they have done something good. 

And when they go home, 

they will wash their hands 

as if they have just left a shiva house. 

And I will sit in the space between now and then,

between Purim’s laughter and Tisha B’Av’s wailing,

between the blast of the shofar 

and the silence that follows, 

between what is concealed 

and what is revealed, 

between the name I was given 

before I ever took breath 

and the name I will return to 

when my breath is gone.