By Yisroael Ben Simcha

Understanding all the tapestry.

Woven cloths that make me sing.

I love the tapestry of trees.

Woven, yet people see what I cannot

Children learn like me.

Yet I cannot see their tapestry.

Their knowledge is centered.

Mine is not.

I still hear the voice of my Aunt.

Willing and promising

Safely I feel safe with her.

I don’t need religious clerics, rabbis, reverends, in-between.

I need solitude.

I don’t need mouthfuls of emptiness anymore

Where are they in Sainsbury’s when

I need them?

Only one ever believed me.

Oh! But I had men cry for me.

Sh! But I cried to women over what happened.

They could not see me

I was in a fog on a boat.

Being rowed.

Being taken and rowed.

Somewhere. Anywhere