Atonement

        The hairy-goat is to bear upon itself all their sins to a desolate land…

Our Sages say that each of us has two pockets.

One holds a slip of paper:

all I am is dust & ashes and to dust I shall return.

The other holds a slip of paper:

the whole world was created just for me.

When we are full of ourselves, the first pocket

cautions us that all wanting ends in dust.

When we are empty-hearted, the second pocket

consoles us with the temptation… 

        of everything. I say we also have a third pocket,

slim & hidden, and fastened with a velvet clasp.

Each Yom Kippur, between we have offended

and we have rebelled, we undo the clasp

(one by one & unbeknownst to anyone), lift out

a threadbare message penned by our own hand:

        all my vows were really not-vows;

all my obligations, not-obligations.

And each year between who by fire and who by

water, we savor this fatted opening where

the past falls away & we are as in our beginning –

with unbound possibility and pity which isn’t quite pity.

Buoyed and resolute, we promise everything.

Forget everything. Place our dusty note back in

its linen tent and redo the soundless clasp.

Redo it carefully, and goat by lonely goat—

        for if we were to offer up our selfish selves

in unison, set loose our bloodstained flesh

and common nature…

Wilderness would spill into endless wilderness

and time, set free, would slip away.

-Sue Swartz

Book of Blood and Guts

He shall lay his hand upon the head of his offering and slaughter it at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting; and Aaron's sons, the priests, shall dash the blood against all sides of the altar.

Ah, that first turkey sandwich

after my principles went up in smoke—

the thick sourdough, the curly leaf lettuce

and thrill of mayonnaise. Animal nature

won out, that old-time religion.

An easy falling into the once familiar:

I bit into the lost flesh without apology.

Pride should keep me from admitting this

(though you can only sacrifice what costs you):

salt was what came to me. The meat needs salt.

Not: my meal was once muscle and sinew,

a squawking creature known

to hold its mouth open in the pouring rain

and drown. Not: underpaid illegals

made possible this almost perfect moment,

their hands flying over a conveyor belt,

70 80 throats a minute, splashing blood

against hard aluminum walls,

blood then gathered up in pipes,

an anonymous river coursing through

the dreams of Memphis and Boonestown.

More places I’ve not yet seen, an entire story

of separation. So you tell your version

and I’ll tell mine. I was ungrateful, yes,

not the last to be caught up in my own

sweet self-centeredness. Forget it.

Salt soon gave way to thoughts of a friend

of a friend, a stranger really, who –

consumed by the rules inside her –

sliced her wrists once, again, and then

once again until she was made whole.

Faced with such bare determination,

what could we do? We did as was required,

washed and wrapped her body,

scattered her ashes. Scattered her,

and walked away. If you’re going to do

a thing, do it right. This is what came to me,

the once-alive held tightly in my hands.

Friends, Leviticus is not for children,

though they find its slimy innards irresistible.

No, this book is for us – grown-ups

of every sorry sort – connoisseurs

of affliction and beauty.

-Sue Swartz

Sue Swartz is a poet, essayist, and social justice activist from Bloomington, Indiana. You can find her commentary and poems about Torah, tattoos, and truth on her blog, Awkward Offerings.