Scott Meskill Designs

like a scream seen through a window
the aleph has no sound,

an open mouth
twisting in transformation.

you spoke a language, a love
that might be fleeting,

a breath swaying behind this living face.
your voice did not survive you.

this is the greatest part of my loss:
I survive, a cadence remembered,

a wick to flame left to recite you,
not knowing the words.

loss in past tense: we loved
we were loved.

once removed, the aleph
speaks truth, dies:

אֶמֶת to מֵת

I follow our jaw’s mirrored lines,
reach toward you

with my father’s hand
to touch the truth upon your chest.

The Golem



I.

In the beginning

there was dust

a shape,

breath of shadow

guttering questions

on the wall.



II.

When a man dies
there is a rending,
stone carved from
clay, dust fraying—
When her father
died, Rivka’s mouth
closed as a seam.



III.

Rivka

It stood by the light
taller than the window’s frame
unfinished

When my father died
they thought it was an ending
my future torn as so many garments

Its gaze says the future
might be trapped by the pressure
of our looking, knowing time is measured

by how we choose to be vulnerable. I looked
for you here wanting to place a stone upon a moment
remember more than I can see:

your neck bent to your books,
your glance Nu? just above your glasses
what was refracted in that gaze?

outside the window, the sky refuses description
trapped by the pressure of our looking—
It stands in the light, arms curved as if to cradle
a child, as if holding something left unfinished.

In Silence

Yaron

Our thoughts
sat low to the ground

palms circling stomachs
heads tilting our ears—

to listen or turn from them,

I cannot say.
In silence a gesture is more than words.

Rivka did not move, but her eyes
picked at their threads.



Schmuel

A man can walk in shame
twist his way through a forest,
lost, afraid, finding a field,
like an open door.

These men were no different.
Why should we listen to them?



Moshe

Some men will hug the door frames
of houses, speaking truths, expecting
disbelief, their memories scratching at walls.



Rivka

My father would speak
over my shoulder,
open a doorway:
a place without light.

I could smell the storm outside.

He held his beard
like smoke, lips parting:

they spoke through fire,
of horses, riders gleaming,
the stick’s bloody end.

Do you think there will be guns in heaven? Will they be needed? Will people still be shooting children with them?! I assume that’s where all the good guys with guns go, so maybe all the children shooters will be in that other place? 🤔