Poetry
Please, God
Abie Cohen
I used to get angry all the time.
I didn’t know or think that I was angry but my skin was simmering and slowly sliding off my neglected muscles.
I would tense up as the worn bristles of my tooth brush scraped the sensitive part of my gum on the left side of my mouth.
I would tense up as I rushed back up the stairs to grab my forgotten airpods.
I would clench as I heard the second to last dial tone before reaching my grandmothers already full voicemail.
I would lock up into a full smile as she picked up the phone.
On Shabbos afternoons my grandfather would redirect traffic away from his Bnei braq, Israel neighborhood.
He stood there for months mid street until he got kicked really hard in the shin leaving him black and blue.
Am I a coward?
Why can’t I think bad thoughts about the dead.
Why are they holy while I grip the plastic chair of this anger management group.
Why do I have to listen to Yaakov Yeshiya repeat his new story about how it really wasn’t his fault this time.
I feel so rotten.
I feel so weak.
I feel like I’ve failed even before I’ve begun and I’m staring at a mountain of my issues surrounded by people paying the prices for them.
My Rabbi would take off his magnifying glasses during his walk home fearing seeing an undressed woman leading his mind astray.
I don’t know where he is anymore or if he still stumbles home after his studies but I miss him.
I want to believe in something no matter how wrong.
I stumble home too after my day.
Hand in phone I toe the line between anxiety and shame.
I want to pray to god but who do I direct the prayer to create a god for me to pray for?
God, I want to sing to you.
I want to face toward you and dance my shame away.
God, can you shut my mind off for a little while so that I could see clearly.
I want to look at my father without all of the stories associated with him.
I want to smile at him without scrunching my face.
I want to honor myself without giving myself a cheat food.
I want to live as though I exist by myself, for myself and in myself.
God, I want to feel my skin.
I want to experience my hair and the texture of my toe nails.
God, I’m alive but can’t touch any of it.
I’m missing what it is to be alive and only get shutters of reality after an exhausting bout of pain and suffering.
I wish this world was cruel and abusive.
This is a world of neglect where we are our own shitty parents not allowing ourselves to breathe beyond the iron curtain of our fears.
God, I want to live.
Please God, exist yourself into existence and turn me off into reality.
Please God give me glasses so that I can take them off and come to life.`
I didn’t know or think that I was angry but my skin was simmering and slowly sliding off my neglected muscles.
I would tense up as the worn bristles of my tooth brush scraped the sensitive part of my gum on the left side of my mouth.
I would tense up as I rushed back up the stairs to grab my forgotten airpods.
I would clench as I heard the second to last dial tone before reaching my grandmothers already full voicemail.
I would lock up into a full smile as she picked up the phone.
On Shabbos afternoons my grandfather would redirect traffic away from his Bnei braq, Israel neighborhood.
He stood there for months mid street until he got kicked really hard in the shin leaving him black and blue.
Am I a coward?
Why can’t I think bad thoughts about the dead.
Why are they holy while I grip the plastic chair of this anger management group.
Why do I have to listen to Yaakov Yeshiya repeat his new story about how it really wasn’t his fault this time.
I feel so rotten.
I feel so weak.
I feel like I’ve failed even before I’ve begun and I’m staring at a mountain of my issues surrounded by people paying the prices for them.
My Rabbi would take off his magnifying glasses during his walk home fearing seeing an undressed woman leading his mind astray.
I don’t know where he is anymore or if he still stumbles home after his studies but I miss him.
I want to believe in something no matter how wrong.
I stumble home too after my day.
Hand in phone I toe the line between anxiety and shame.
I want to pray to god but who do I direct the prayer to create a god for me to pray for?
God, I want to sing to you.
I want to face toward you and dance my shame away.
God, can you shut my mind off for a little while so that I could see clearly.
I want to look at my father without all of the stories associated with him.
I want to smile at him without scrunching my face.
I want to honor myself without giving myself a cheat food.
I want to live as though I exist by myself, for myself and in myself.
God, I want to feel my skin.
I want to experience my hair and the texture of my toe nails.
God, I’m alive but can’t touch any of it.
I’m missing what it is to be alive and only get shutters of reality after an exhausting bout of pain and suffering.
I wish this world was cruel and abusive.
This is a world of neglect where we are our own shitty parents not allowing ourselves to breathe beyond the iron curtain of our fears.
God, I want to live.
Please God, exist yourself into existence and turn me off into reality.
Please God give me glasses so that I can take them off and come to life.`
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Abie Cohen was raised in an ultra-orthodox Jewish family in Brooklyn, NY as well as Bnei Braq, Israel. His erratic upbringing cornered him into appreciating the positivity within the darkness he can't seem to escape from. His pen often feels like his last link and hope for his dwindling humanity.
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