I don’t like change.
I’m even afraid of the next lines of this poem
because they’re uncertain.
(Phew, we made it!)
I remember not wanting to go to Hebrew school
as I liked it better before, when I didn’t
have to go anywhere.
(Turns out I didn’t have a choice and
now look at me, writing Jewish poems
every week like a zealot.)
I remember not wanting to move into
a different house because what was the point
of taking all your things and moving them
when they were perfectly fine where they were?
(Now I have a view and pretend wood floors
and open space and a dysfunctional jacuzzi
and rooms to spare.)
I remember deciding not go back to that
familiar place I had gone to every week for
a couple of decades. A paycheck was at stake
and hella personal connections.
(I no longer taste crow every day which
suits my spiritual vegetarianism.)
My friend always tells me about how
a door closing is immediately followed by
(You just have to get there quick enough
so flies and raccoons don’t walk in.)
Change is Egypt.
Change is forgetting what comes after Egypt.
Change may take forty years.
You might have to build a pyramid.
You might need to pack up your things
a number of times.
Do not turn this thing right around.
You are going exactly where
you should be going.