In the Seventh Year
The pen, like a plough,
drags its fallow shadow,
stowing our awareness
in silent rows.
By now, our gathered knots
will have swollen to curled fists—
like contortionists
we are ready to unburden
in all corners. This seventh year
invites us to be wholly
broken open,
to shake the flecks
of debts
like crumbs from white linen.
In a collective breath
we shutter our qualms,
releasing our pent-up
prayers, slowly
unclenching to witness
the crenulations
of our palms:
forgotten psalms
becoming clear, only when we choose
not to reap.