Tag Archives: Maya Bernstein

            My heart’s a flopping fish that’s caught and you’re the fisherman who says what’s this as round and round you turn me. I lie taut, wriggling, gutted, cold. I want to be set free. Wet. Waters washing over me and … Continue reading →

Summer-months, the waters warm when air is cool and cool when air is warm. Now, this lake is frozen, January-solid beneath a boot-crunch of snow. I lay my weight in the center. The sky’s the same as when I floated … Continue reading →

            Maya Lin, Madison Square Park Conservancy, May-Nov 2021 The pigeons didn’t seem to care             which branches were alive. They perched as if they could declare             Nothing can survive. Whole forests ghosted, suddenly             gone. Leaves and roots and shoots, ancient canopies … Continue reading →

            “Hakol bidei shamayim chutz miyir’at shamayim”                         Babylonian Talmud, Brachot 33b everything is in Your hands except for my belief in You everything I perceive is my perspective my skin is thin, slippery; I am what is left over of myself … Continue reading →

            Pass over me, though there is no blood                         on my doorpost, though             I am not                         at home but, like You,             in constant motion,                                     hoping to go unnoticed.                         Not so much to smite             as to not be smitten. Maya Bernstein’s writing … Continue reading →