Backlogging
Recently, my son revealed he wants to get a tattoo on his inner arm that speaks to his
burden.
In Hebrew the word kal means light, opposite
of heavy — a sign of relief.
I asked if he still carried all his grief around,
if he was trying to unload
memories of a mother leaving
with children, plants and poetry under her arm
an antique trunk passed down generations to house mistakes —
shadow of his father who went missing, missing?
Whether he was untangling from the weight of being called a problem child?
learning weighing heavy because in differences we are made to feel our own absence.
He said, Ma, you should do what I do — let it go.
Your back needs to breathe from the time passing, don’t hold back.
I asked if he can wait till he was really certain he wanted one
but that would mean he’d have to carry the weight of the question on his back.
He said, haven’t you learnt anything from waiting,
dangling tongue hangs by a thread and here you are still invisible.
365 Days Since
That Spring March took the winding road
covered snow with sorrow
turning to scornful sleet
a rhyming season nestled
in the thread of fear.
it was a way to retell
Days of Regret
when the world locked up,
knocked down by the news,
confused
the living —
hard working ant
the honey badger,
African forest elephant
the local dog
for them and us
time’s become
a wrinkled mirror —
distorted
the ill dissolve like water
mourners rain down —
their tears drown
and where am I?
connected
through a cloud still
in this rotten world
I cannot remove myself
from The New Age Of Worry.
kneeling on a stoop of my building
seeking penance on the upper island
against the backdrop of racism,
xenophobia,
anti-Semitism,
violence — against days
pocketed away in memory
baring truths
into a world of folly.
masked, unmasked —
half way seen or not seen at all
half taken back, forgetting
the soaring bells that rang
seven pm
— no return is to be made.
the world remains alone —
together — apart
— united
all seems untimely
like rootless creatures
we aim to reset the clock.
like the moon that splinters —
I hate the moon for splitting so soon.
Leah Kogen-Elimeliah is a poet, writer & curator, currently teaching at City College & John Jay College. Founder & Director of WordShedNYC Reading Series, Leah collaborates on various poetry/visual/dance projects with independent artists, experimenting with cross genres, multimedia & poetry. Her writing focuses on identity, language, immigration, intergenerational trauma, sexuality & culture. Originally from Moscow, Leah lives in Nyack, NY with her husband & their children.
The Marbled Sigh 