Kelipoth – Broken Vessels After the Jewish Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria of Safed, Israel 
The breaking of the vessels:
Amid strewn shards
Of a coronaviral broken universe,
Tiny sparks of light
Gather quietly, unnoticeably,
And cling to the broken shards
Inside the bowls. Divine light
Flows into them for the work
Of tikkun olam, the mending
Of the world –
Emanations of Eros,
Making whole through love
What neither plague nor hate
Something startled me:
where I thought I was safest
where I thought I belonged
so I will follow Whitman—
avoid the still woods I love
and fields where I used to walk.
I won’t emerge from my home
to meet friends in open spaces
or hug them and share a coffee,
there are no cafes anymore.
Even the ground has sickened.
Men in white spray disinfectant
over streets to stem disease.
Yet, I’m alive to sounds of spring
rising from death and decay of winter.
I’m alive to the prospect of summer
when death-fertilized ground shows life
Jerry was too macho to wear a mask.
Never been sick a day in his life,
Except for the tonsillectomy, two rounds
Of pneumonia, countless unremembered colds,
And the flu he caught from an anonymous girl
He slept with only once. Besides,
The President he adores says likely
The virus is a hoax; or, at worst, is getting better—
We have rounded the corner.
His soft brown fingers explore my elbow, seeking
a sturdy vein. He calls me “Miss Sara” as if
I’m a Hollywood legend and I extend my breath
to ease the needle’s intrusion. As he tapes the shunt,
he asks if I’ve voted. Yes, two weeks ago, by mail. And you?
Three seconds—maybe four—his dark eyes looking
elsewhere before he says: I’m not a citizen.
he sits upon a concrete sidewalk
watching aliens in business suits
sliding calculatingly down neon streets
sniffing wistfully at every
street corner ramen shop
considering each infraction of AI law
displayed in puddled reflections
down every rain-washed alleyway
filled with the crippled and demented
simulacra of the restless dead
without worlds enough
with nothing but time
and the patience of a mountain
caught in an infinite loop
still waiting for her return
Among the stones, there was a flower that reached out to me.
Many years ago, I dreamt of the Arabian Nights
When I woke up I found myself laughing
As I sat at the edge of battle
Dressed like a warrior.
the morning begins for me
with the newspaper and a cup of chaos:
how a white knee dug into a black head
and planted death and an uprising—
how helpless folks died on their way
to their homes like those unsaid words
which never reached the tongue—
how sex is to be done with masks
the way you are expected to taste
a dessert standing outside
the glass wall of the confectionery—
the sun has grown stale now
after months of constant seeing
all the gods have lost their appeal
seasons turn though time refuses to
budge and eyes crave for good news
amid furor of curfews
the way resilient peasants
eat morsels of hunger
yet sow hope in a parched land