I never asked for this heavenly height
which no woman can possibly reach.
As for the mysteries of my womb – don’t ask!
Any Jewish mother thinks her son God
but this was no joke. I was young
and blue was not my colour.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful,
knowing all he did, but being chosen,
as my people know – tsouris mit tsouris.
As a boy he was a bit of a lobbas, too smart
for his own good, it was inevitable
he should be a rabbi; but such a hell raiser?
If I’m honest I’d have preferred a girl
to help me cook and light the Shabbas lights.
I would’ve been a grandma.
What can you do? You’re a mother –
you love, you lose and losing them
hurts like nothing else. You yell at them
to stay safe, you hate them
for throwing their lives away,
but you never stop loving
and he had to go and love the whole world.
RACHAEL CLYNE lives in Glastonbury. Her prizewinning collection, Singing at the Bone Tree, is published by Indigo Dreams. Anthologies: The Very Best of 52, Book of Love and Loss, Poems for a Liminal Age. Magazines: Rialto, Tears in the Fence, Fat Damsel, Interpreter’s House, Prole.
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