Writing

The tides still ebb

The sun still rises

The trees still grow

My curls are longer now.

We have a new president new governors

Different colors speckling made up maps

Division.

How lucky am I?

To feel loved?

In a household and a family and a school that makes me feel not worth it

not good enough 

and I found someone outside of it all who loves me?

I used to have a purpose here.

Words would open,

and people would step inside them.

Photos would breathe,

and someone would stop to look.

Now it feels like I’m slipping—

here,

The Washington Monument, Mt. Rushmore — these places were the pride and pinnacle of what America should’ve been.

I wish I could see the world like a puzzle

with each piece

having one

rightful

place.

But there is far too much 

idealist romantic

in me 

for that to be the case.

I think

The East Wind is a rabbi in a darkened shul. He sits pored over the Torah scroll long into the night, his back bent like a cane. People come and go and come again, whispering prayers for the needy, the hungry, the sick.