Off-White Simchas by Sophie Cardin

What, off-white existence.
Quiet, until a stabbing 
Marks us red (& the unlucky dead
Have nowhere to go — 
Messiahs are word of mouth, 
Afterlife out of the question)
We live lives proofed by resistance;

To be is to refuse their willing
To mark myself with that, familiar star
Whose six points, pierced 
Our dead Savtas, Our 
Disappeared Sabas
Turned to smoke with 
Brachot, still rising from their throats. 

On Saturday, I mourned
Our brief and quiet days, of 
Light, and Simchas.
(Under my breath,
Proclaiming myself a flickering 
That will not be stamped out.)

Photo by Tobias Faucher on Unsplash