A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
In its color alone,
my beard is the sun falling upon the evening
and some days
it is chaffing brambles, poison
sumac, creeping red vines everywhere.
On other days, it is the nest I never want to leave
even if that means not
finding someone to pull my beard
softly toward her.
And when my beard lowers on the ocean,
its tendrils flicker and break
the horizon line.
And at that setting point, I wish for my beard
to have fishing hooks
on each strand’s end,
for we are always wanting—
those of my hair color. King David even took
a 16th wife for nothing
but the last few seconds
of his life
just to warm
to the hereafter.
Copyright 2019 Baruch November. From Bar Mitzvah Dreams published by Main Street Rag.