Beshallach
this is my God and I will revere Them this one the one to whom I am pointing right pinky extended impertinently just me and the young boy beside me the young man at his shoulder the little boy at his feet our heads are still dusty from the fields our toes still spread like roots and our mothers’ arms still feel like rocks of milk and honey, rocks of anointment, like an inescapable embrace, like God’s arms, and we can still taste that honey on our tongues. this is my God I say, this God standing before me, blowing waves into paths of spun glass and freezing a dome above our heads, the cloud and the fire and the song--this is our God, we say, outlining Their shape with our pinkies, carving an image for the mothers at our backs. you are our God, we remember your face.
