“With this beginning, the unknown concealed one created the palace. This palace is called אלוהים (Elohim), God. The secret is: בראשית ברא אלוהים (Bereshit bara Elohim), With beginning, _______ created God (Genesis 1:1).”
— Zohar (I:15a)
“…She knows that her beloved is searching for her; so what does she do? She opens the portal to her hidden room [in the palace] slightly and reveals her face for a moment, and then hides it again.”
— Zohar (II.99a)
Somewhere, a whirring fan in an open window spins possibilities into threads. I heard a rumor that the Oleander flowers shed their pink and white grace for poisonous reason. A car slinks down traces of a melted tar road. You like to stand by the window, and want him to see you there, behind a curtain. He doesn’t know you or you him. He walks the span of street, infrequently catching a glimpse of blue eyes, a reflection in cracks of the cotton-hued skies. The crow calls from a tree. Another day, green parrots screech louder than the traffic flees. The heat lays like a corpse upon our city. Bougainvillea bracts spot gardens with false hope, colorful arrays of forgotten pain turned to sweet honey. He forgets you, though you never meet. And you, also, forget—window, curtains, the desire for a stranger's glad glance. Someone wants this to be autobiography, a short recollection of moments actually lived. That person never dreamed, does not exist anymore. And I never existed because I don’t stop dreaming. Poetry, like a god, provides code for an image, keying it to suggest a revelation-lode from your past. You want it to be my past. Parrots screech. A crow calls. A beautiful Other by the window waits. This all happens to you while I write these scenes tangled in dreams, whirring fans—the poem unable to light any form, your reading, this page; unable to discover more than bare wisps of meaning in the vibrations of words—your song longing for someone in the infinite void. Wanting a mortal to read you into this, to see you alive, you seek a new beginning—genesis.
Note: Zohar refers to The Book of Splendor, one of the main texts of Kabbalah. Translations are from Daniel Matt’s work.
Somewhere a Whirring Fan is from Michael Dickel’s collection, Nothing Remembers.
©2019 Michael Dickel
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