An unknowable name
The revelation of darkness was pressure surrounding me.
I began to weep like a child,
understanding that her searing touch
contains within it all that is unknown and unknowable.
The darkness has a name, unspeakable.
She is black on white, the fullness of dark, the empty
void waiting to be expressed in lights,
the mother for whom I wept
the night I sat in a tiny synagogue in Flatbush,
listening to the men
through holes in a divider,
vocalizing what I could not.
In silence, I confessed
as the darkness loomed:
God, I don’t know what you are.
And then, from the corners of the Universe
came a voice so heavy
with compassion it broke my heart.
“It’s alright. You don’t have to
to love me.”