Shalem / שלם

Three calendars hang in our kitchen:

One begins in spring, one in fall

One in winter. The start and halt

Of a well-used car. A sundial

Someone keeps moving. Summer begins

In my Papa Joon’s memoir. On page

1940: a bucket of water to chase  

The sewage from his house in Hamadan.

1970: British petroleum, moving oceans.

2000: grandchildren piled in front of a VCR

Watching Jumanji on Shabbat for the 8th time.

2019:

I can switch languages like jumping

Across city roofs, because they share

A grammar of time. What a blessing

To have so many words for beautiful

Moments: Chai with dates and fistfuls

Of pomegranate. So many women

To read about who pulled the fences out

From walled gardens. We are born  

On three days each year. I am three women

And sometimes they talk behind each other’s backs.

And sometimes words taste strange

In my mouth, like the pale dust of “grandfather”

Or the palatial splendor of es-ra-yil or

The easy gutturals of Yiddish. For whom

Is my Papa Joon writing? For me, for me

It is all a gift for me.