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An Absence of Water.

Atonement and drought are absent of water. Things that are present with me this Yom Kippur are also connected observing an absence of water.

  • I only fasted one Yom Kippur. It was 2006. I was in Guatemala and my brother was deployed in Iraq.

  • I considered, tried, failed to fast on other Yom Kippurs as a means to feel connected across distance.

  • The novel I am currently writing is about an imbalance in the world's water, our water.

  • The novel I am currently writing believes that connection builds and replenishes itself in a cycle, like water.

  • I decided that the dates of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Hispanic Heritage Month was the depth of intersection I needed to return to edit this novel.

For my post this year, I offer drops of poetry and water.

Words scratch and mark

With ink

With blood

I wanted to dissolve

Marks, lines,

I burned the ink

Bled the water

I evaporated salt to

Marks, lines.

You keep scratching your scars

To change the color

To lessen the itch

Don’t you understand their rash is redder

Than canyons


Than storms

Longer than roots which

Survive droughts

Cracked in stone

I only ask for balance.

Not time,


Instead, they keep their balance.

And time,


Until the voices are thick with too many,

Ways to count,

Mistakes and right,

Years and sons,

Dark and light.

Tensions break.

Scars mark.

Battles in our bones.

History on our skin.

But, the water comes.

It comes.

It pours.

Water carries everything

Water is carried by everything

The skins of the dead

And the rind of the living

It washes.

It births.

It lives even when





Voices cut

And deafen

Water drowns noise.

Water smooths all edges.

It blankets the earth

It speaks to the stars

Water fills all hollow spaces.


Water evaporated


Marks a promise

To return

Leaving a dry grave

Full of stones.

Why does water run away?

Cut into rock

Drown breath

And even cling

To dirt

When it’s already in the sky.

Clouds, like bodies, are dirt and water.

They circle souls through the world.

Storms are only

One path for water

One path for love

Neither are ends.

Cycles weave

Through hearts and stone

To cut, to burst, to cleanse.

The name for Heaven is


Has always been



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