By Rachel Galvin
Today we walked the inlet Nybøl Nor
remembering how to tread on frozen snow.
Ate cold sloeberries
that tasted of wind—a white pucker—
spat their sour pits in snow. Along
the horizon, a line of windmills dissolved
into a white field. Your voice
on the phone, a gesund auf dein keppele
you blessed my head. Six months now
since I've seen you. There are
traces of you here, your curls still dark
and long, your woven dove,
the room you stayed in: send your syllables,
I am swimming below the tidemark.
Words shed overcoats, come
to me undressed, slender-limbed, they have no
letters yet. It is the festival
of lights, I have no
candles. I light one for each night,
pray on a row
of nine lighthouses.
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Happy Chanukah this difficult year. I'm celebrating night one by watching A Biltmore Christmas, which I realize is about as goyish an activity as I could come up with, but Jonathan Frakes and Bob Picardo are in it so it gets Star Trek Jewish-by-association credit. Before this we watched the first episode of The Buccaneers, which feels like The Gilded Age married Bridgerton and I mean that in a good way.
Before that I chatted with my Thursday group, which is always a delight. Earlier my day was about chores, but I successfully stamped, addressed, and mailed most of my holiday cards and several packages and the post office lines weren't bad. We also stopped to get passport photos because mine expires in January and I want to make sure I get it renewed in time to travel next year. First night:
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