Son of Amittai

“Are you so deeply grieved?”

—G-d, to Jonah

Son of Amittai

​

The first ant appears on a tangled arm hair, pinched out

of life between thumb and forefinger like a wick of flame, and

in the morning, the bedsheets are dotted with black pinprick travelers.

The ant trap on the windowsill is like a tiny synagogue,

congregants coming and going.

 

And when I weep into the throw pillow after a disastrous

night of speed-dating, G—d says, “If you were a prophet, you would be Jonah.”

He means it as an insult.

 

I remind G—d of the story of the oven of Akhnai: “Remember

that time the rabbis ignored you and threw out your opinion entirely?”

But G—d is only amused; things roll

off His back these days.

 

The ants in death are curled slightly over themselves. 

Slumped exoskeletons: I count a minyan of them.

And the G—d who leveled cities with His gaze

grows quiet.

“You once drowned your own creation,” I tell Him.

He says, “Those were different times. 

I was young.”