These Days

Hannah Butcher-Stell

These Days 

Ten Days of Awe and I am lying
on the carpet, looking out 

the window, at a world
I do not know yet. 

How many blessings have slipped
through my skirt and scuttled 

to the floor, our marriage
just a few weeks old, our chuppah 

flowers preserved.
I sleep, and this is standard. 

I eat, and this is standard.
I pray, and this is standard—but rare 

that I feel Presence like this, like I’m
standing on the edge of a needle 

about to thread.
Soon it is the very eve 

of Yom Kippur and my new husband
says he does not feel he deserves 

to ask G-d for what he wants.
How many blessings pass 

without us noticing, I say, but not to him.
They wear many cloaks 

and different faces; they know our names.
We eat, and this is standard. 

We pray, and this is standard—but rare
that we just lie down, 

hold our breath like we’ve done these days. 

Watch the needle shake
before going in.