For God’s and a Woman’s Love
by Chaim Strauchler
Pitchi li achoti rayati yonati tamati [1]
Pitchu li sha’arei tzedek avo bam ode yah [2]
I ask…
Open for me
like a young flower
like those majestic gates
like an unopened book
Filled with secrets whose
beauty only ripens whose
majesty time refines whose
knowledge may enlighten but only
By imperfection’s honest haze.
Read: that eyes are not doves, that breasts are not wine.
that the gates lay shattered by exile our single parent—
that I will never fully know the heart that I most love.
a heart that is not a text.
A poem is a text.
But I am too quick—I have entered without asking
if I may enter,
and in exploring a past once painful,
I have erred once more.
So again I ask with a weak and timid voice
may I err once more,
my beloved, my dove, my pure
if thou art not my sister
by that I mean you are a nation
because you and I are nothing but a symbol.
The lover and his beloved—and thou—if that’s
OK with you.
Shall I being male—be god and
You being female be Israel.
and while you object to my being the subject.
I’ll let you be god so that you may…
forgive me
for I played god’s part too well
for I knocked on the door with a sweet gentle voice
and quietly slipped away.
for fear—for fear of being seen—for fear of ending
the excitement of chutes and ladders—
exile and redemption.
Let us ask God why he only taps on the door.
“God, why don’t you smash the door through
and grasp us both firmly in your arms
metaphorical arms—of course—you don’t have real arms?
Why maim schoolchildren school bound
On the way to salvation
On a school bus? Would you
Stop knocking and come in already—
They don’t have legs.”
So it’s alright if you want to be god—metaphorically—I don’t mind
“Oh, so I should get the door.”
Yes baby, uh, I mean god.
But when I get there, will you be with the flocks?
And trapped in this metaphor—with a weak and timid voice
I ask—if our love is but a metaphor for God’s love
Then is love for God not a metaphor for our own,
That is when we love God—ith our two hearts
With our one soul—and with our possessions[3]—
Our silly flocks.
But when we don’t believe—in God, in one another—
When his actions hurt and he leaves us alone
What is our love then?
When God will not be known, because God will not be a text.
I ask you please don’t leave me with this poem.
Don’t leave me not having found our metaphor’s meaning.
Fill me sister with your imperfect perfection.
Pitchu li sha’arei tzedek avo bam ode yah [2]
With a weak and timid voice
I ask…
Open for me
like a young flower
like those majestic gates
like an unopened book
Filled with secrets whose
beauty only ripens whose
majesty time refines whose
knowledge may enlighten but only
By imperfection’s honest haze.
Read: that eyes are not doves, that breasts are not wine.
that the gates lay shattered by exile our single parent—
that I will never fully know the heart that I most love.
a heart that is not a text.
A poem is a text.
But I am too quick—I have entered without asking
if I may enter,
and in exploring a past once painful,
I have erred once more.
So again I ask with a weak and timid voice
may I err once more,
my beloved, my dove, my pure
if thou art not my sister
by that I mean you are a nation
because you and I are nothing but a symbol.
The lover and his beloved—and thou—if that’s
OK with you.
Shall I being male—be god and
You being female be Israel.
and while you object to my being the subject.
I’ll let you be god so that you may…
forgive me
for I played god’s part too well
for I knocked on the door with a sweet gentle voice
and quietly slipped away.
for fear—for fear of being seen—for fear of ending
the excitement of chutes and ladders—
exile and redemption.
Let us ask God why he only taps on the door.
“God, why don’t you smash the door through
and grasp us both firmly in your arms
metaphorical arms—of course—you don’t have real arms?
Why maim schoolchildren school bound
On the way to salvation
On a school bus? Would you
Stop knocking and come in already—
They don’t have legs.”
So it’s alright if you want to be god—metaphorically—I don’t mind
“Oh, so I should get the door.”
Yes baby, uh, I mean god.
But when I get there, will you be with the flocks?
And trapped in this metaphor—with a weak and timid voice
I ask—if our love is but a metaphor for God’s love
Then is love for God not a metaphor for our own,
That is when we love God—ith our two hearts
With our one soul—and with our possessions[3]—
Our silly flocks.
But when we don’t believe—in God, in one another—
When his actions hurt and he leaves us alone
What is our love then?
When God will not be known, because God will not be a text.
I ask you please don’t leave me with this poem.
Don’t leave me not having found our metaphor’s meaning.
Fill me sister with your imperfect perfection.