Sarah Etlinger
God Loves You 22 (CW: suicide attempt)
(after Erika Meitner)
declares the billboard on my commute
this morning, towering over the ragtag surf
of cars and highway, everyone busy on their way
to work or school, the lives we live outside our homes
in a holy testament to our love for America and capitalism.
I tell a colleague it reminds me of her
and she says I just assume everything is Packers now
since she's just moved to Wisconsin,
our worship of balloon-men in spandex pants and over-blown
padding and a shiny helmet, our paean to Sunday
and togetherness an aggression, watching grown men
fight and tumble again and again, their bodies worn
temples to injury and strife. So much aggression
leaves invisible scars. So many of my friends tell me
their husbands of 10-15-20-25 years have snapped—
they are angry. They have aggression they don’t know
what to do with, didn’t know they had. They don’t even call
it aggression. They call it stress at work. Jealousy.
They call it falling in love with another person. Another friend told me
she loved the Beatles Get Back documentary
but I think they are all unmoored.
I pass under the bridge where a few years ago
several people tried to jump into oncoming traffic—
a sign plastered over the narrow railing
in blue Sharpie THANKS FOR EVERYTHING. GOODBYE.
On erev Rosh Hashana my mother-in-law asks her brother
if he's eaten his apples and honey.
She gets up from the table to remind everyone
to eat their apples dipped in honey, take in
a morsel sweetened by the viscous liquid
of nectar and enzymes, made and stored by bees
for eating in times of scarcity. My mother-in-law truly believes
in this ritual. I don't believe in anything. I'm uncomfortable
with even the notion of God except when it's maybe
convenient. But aren't we all unmoored, road-warriors,
witnesses to this jumbled landscape of televangelism
and testament and testimony? —God loves us
even when we don't love him. When my mother-in-law returns
I take an apple slice and pour the honey over
and it drips onto my shirt, a sticky blemish
I don't notice until today while I'm walking
in to work, the early morning light full now and open.
this morning, towering over the ragtag surf
of cars and highway, everyone busy on their way
to work or school, the lives we live outside our homes
in a holy testament to our love for America and capitalism.
I tell a colleague it reminds me of her
and she says I just assume everything is Packers now
since she's just moved to Wisconsin,
our worship of balloon-men in spandex pants and over-blown
padding and a shiny helmet, our paean to Sunday
and togetherness an aggression, watching grown men
fight and tumble again and again, their bodies worn
temples to injury and strife. So much aggression
leaves invisible scars. So many of my friends tell me
their husbands of 10-15-20-25 years have snapped—
they are angry. They have aggression they don’t know
what to do with, didn’t know they had. They don’t even call
it aggression. They call it stress at work. Jealousy.
They call it falling in love with another person. Another friend told me
she loved the Beatles Get Back documentary
but I think they are all unmoored.
I pass under the bridge where a few years ago
several people tried to jump into oncoming traffic—
a sign plastered over the narrow railing
in blue Sharpie THANKS FOR EVERYTHING. GOODBYE.
On erev Rosh Hashana my mother-in-law asks her brother
if he's eaten his apples and honey.
She gets up from the table to remind everyone
to eat their apples dipped in honey, take in
a morsel sweetened by the viscous liquid
of nectar and enzymes, made and stored by bees
for eating in times of scarcity. My mother-in-law truly believes
in this ritual. I don't believe in anything. I'm uncomfortable
with even the notion of God except when it's maybe
convenient. But aren't we all unmoored, road-warriors,
witnesses to this jumbled landscape of televangelism
and testament and testimony? —God loves us
even when we don't love him. When my mother-in-law returns
I take an apple slice and pour the honey over
and it drips onto my shirt, a sticky blemish
I don't notice until today while I'm walking
in to work, the early morning light full now and open.
Etrog
The same day I learned that the voice in my car can say fuck,
I also learned that I'd forgotten it was erev Yom Kippur,
and also the anniversary of my grandfather's death more than 15 years ago,
where in the temple for the service the rabbi compared him
to the etrog, the now-sacred citrus fruit only grown in Israel for Sukkot;
and also the same day I realized there's no one alive
to settle the debate about whether my great-grandmother's name
was Molly or Rebecca;
and also the fact that no one is alive whom I can ask
about whether my grandmother pureed the sauce for the meatballs,
and also no one is alive who can tell me who
my grandmother loved before she loved my grandfather
and whether she really wanted a daughter
or how many hours it really takes to make the brisket,
and honestly–honestly–what the secret ingredient was in the cookies;
and also no one is alive who I can ask
what the light looked like in the dark shtetl evenings
or how it felt to see the rows and rows of the etrogs
quietly gleaming in the morning when the market opened.
I also learned that I'd forgotten it was erev Yom Kippur,
and also the anniversary of my grandfather's death more than 15 years ago,
where in the temple for the service the rabbi compared him
to the etrog, the now-sacred citrus fruit only grown in Israel for Sukkot;
and also the same day I realized there's no one alive
to settle the debate about whether my great-grandmother's name
was Molly or Rebecca;
and also the fact that no one is alive whom I can ask
about whether my grandmother pureed the sauce for the meatballs,
and also no one is alive who can tell me who
my grandmother loved before she loved my grandfather
and whether she really wanted a daughter
or how many hours it really takes to make the brisket,
and honestly–honestly–what the secret ingredient was in the cookies;
and also no one is alive who I can ask
what the light looked like in the dark shtetl evenings
or how it felt to see the rows and rows of the etrogs
quietly gleaming in the morning when the market opened.
An Old White Door (CW: mourning)
Tracy has canceled all her plans and says The kids and I have Covid and I have a dead dog
so if anyone has a problem with that, they can go to Hell.
so if anyone has a problem with that, they can go to Hell.
At the cemetery, there's a grave decorated with toys.
My father refuses to speak ill of the dead.
Some people tell stories. Jews plant trees. Bring casseroles and sit for seven days with their
mourning. Some say prayers and light candles. I focus on my smile
mourning. Some say prayers and light candles. I focus on my smile
in the picture from Christmas Eve, 1984, instead of the fact
that it was taken while my mother miscarried my sister's twin. Perhaps that's why
my sister fills the house with people, names her daughter
that it was taken while my mother miscarried my sister's twin. Perhaps that's why
my sister fills the house with people, names her daughter
after her dead friend. I write to Valerie, Isn't grief just love leaving the body?
My husband and I cleaned out his grandmother's apartment, hung her art
on our living room walls. We named a drawer in the kitchen after her
because it held the El-Al airlines spoon she used to feed her grandchildren.
on our living room walls. We named a drawer in the kitchen after her
because it held the El-Al airlines spoon she used to feed her grandchildren.
My aunt got a new dog the same weekend hers died because she couldn't stand the quiet.
A friend goes to the spa after taking her mother to hospice.
A friend goes to the spa after taking her mother to hospice.
The cake I baked last month for my neighbor whose father died suddenly at 64 was baked
in my grandmother's cake pans.
in my grandmother's cake pans.
My mother now regularly sends me old photos. I think it's because she knows
whatever is left in their house when they die, we will have to clean up.
Because she knows we know someday she is going to die.
whatever is left in their house when they die, we will have to clean up.
Because she knows we know someday she is going to die.
Today on my walk I saw a red chair and an old white door on the sidewalk. The chair was small
enough to be a child's, or maybe a place where you could sit to remove your shoes.
enough to be a child's, or maybe a place where you could sit to remove your shoes.
You could use the door to make a table or a bench or divide a room, or a
life-raft, when everything floods, and you need something to hang on to.
life-raft, when everything floods, and you need something to hang on to.
Blackbird, Butterfly, Robin
When my mother said she'd never seen
a red-winged blackbird,
she meant at her age she had seen most
of what she was going to see,
and isn't it incredible to know
there’s still a whole lot of surprise left
in the world—
like how when I saw a butterfly
and a robin fly at the same time
in a single patch of air last summer
I thought, this is what it's like to be loved
and when I say loved I mean
you touched me once
and it was the first time I've ever
felt like flying.
a red-winged blackbird,
she meant at her age she had seen most
of what she was going to see,
and isn't it incredible to know
there’s still a whole lot of surprise left
in the world—
like how when I saw a butterfly
and a robin fly at the same time
in a single patch of air last summer
I thought, this is what it's like to be loved
and when I say loved I mean
you touched me once
and it was the first time I've ever
felt like flying.
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