Beloved, tonight we gloss
our mouths in Aramaic, wet
palates sweet with sugya,
thumbs tracing letter
and thigh—shin, pey, tav—
scripture skims skin,
mouth fluent beneath the argument:
a pilpul pressed
tongue-deep in mitzvot,
pliant halakha
of heat, inked hips
writhing responsa.

My lips shape blessings
into every syllable of you,
each phrase traced
with the slow sincerity
of tevah, the turning
return of teshuvah—
we unroll together,
meaning spilling
beyond the margins.

Na'aseh, we will do—
your hips already answering
questions I haven't asked,
V'nishma, we will hear
how my mouth knew
to find this blessing
before my mind could name it,
the way revelation
always comes after
the body says yes.

My hands
open new commentary
as you counter, quick—
your laughter a rebuttal
against my wandering thumb,
your hip insists
on a different footnote.
We argue with touch,
my tongue posing questions
you refuse to answer plainly—
instead, you return
with a tease of your own,
until meaning leaps
from your lips to mine—
and the proof is always in your reply.

Our study argues explicit:
mouth debates manuscript,
we chant ourselves
into contradiction,
commandments bend
under our questioning,
gates swing wide
for blessings that refuse
to be written down.

(Author’s note: this is written about, and contains very minor spoilers about, Quill & Still by Aaron Sofaer)

In Kibosh, democracy seeps
tank to tap—
no anthem air nor archway glare—
just seat-shaped petition:
porcelain plebiscite echoing in the bowl.
Not a throne set above,
not a subject consigned below.
Soft lid closing chaos;
tally wiped out in whirlpool spin;
old debts dissolved
as swirl shushes balance sheets—
history wiped down
by steady hands and elbow grease.

A plaque might as well glint sly advice:
“Relieve and believe,” implied by every fixture—
etched with wink, not warning.
No one blushes at ritual so routine;
here shame is rinsed plain as rainwater.

Tiles underfoot tessellate city maps:
grout-lines redrawn by wishbone pipes,
every step tracing circuits from waste to wonder.
Stone veins pulse deeper than any parade route—
that quiet trickle which toppled dynasties
now greets as burble in the bend.

Rinse-cycles murmur municipal code
in dialects lost on kings;
a parliament of plumbing
arguing softly below your knees.
Rumours loop through runoff—
justice soldered where copper kisses curve;
here equity isn’t theory but thread
drawn bright through every valve.

Accessible levers glint by every seat,
design on display in the gentle descent
of lids that never slam—
Even here mercy chafes before it soothes:
first-time fidget giving way to luxury’s hug
as the seat fits every shape that claims it.

Above each tank, an unwritten blessing hovers:
“May your burdens be lighter than your doubts”—
no inscription needed; every flush enacts the faith
that relief should leave something softer behind.

Hesitation tangles ankles before siphon sighs them gone;
blueprint outweighs border at every threshold—
Each stall wide for rolling wheels or wandering heels,
no guard posted but decency standing easy watch;
who sits? Anyone weary enough.

Self-washing charms whirl underfoot—
invisible stewards crowned in spellwork—
floors glisten not from labour but design.
Some claim revolutions spark from slogans;
here they bubble up where gasket kisses grout,
no gilded lavatories—just honest cubicles
marching shoulder-to-shoulder,
graffiti murmuring:
even Artemis sometimes squats among mortals.

Flushes toll soft benedictions:
mercy modulated by mains pressure,
pipes crooning “shed what you carried.”
Doors open not with flourish
but a click clean as forgiveness—
privacy brief as weather but exile unknown.

If utopia anchors anywhere enduring, it burrows low—
between tile seam and tendon’s reach,
where compassion curls down drains
and returns agleam on porcelain lips.
Dignity gets re-piped dawn after dawn
in ceramic couplets;
lines spiral from trap-bend to vent-stack,
decency soldered where most never bother looking—
yet all must pass through.

I clear the drain
before it clogs,
snip stray strands
from your clothes
when you aren’t here.

I check the tin
of tea you forgot,
gather the curls
your comb left coiled
on the counter,
brush dust
from unopened things.

You may never know.
But love—
when it runs
up from the root—
needs no witness
to be profound.

Begin with reverence—
your edge,
a fine and fervent tongue,
a truth-beveled sliver of steel,
in trembling, fire-tempered hands.

Stand firm, dear blade,
in whispers and whetstone murmurs;
angle yourself acutely
to the grain of resistance,
to the grit and glide of infinite friction.
Embrace abrasion's symphony:
truths honed are always born
of fortitude's faithful dance.

Move evenly, lovingly—
a rhythm in wrist and marrow,
forward, bold, deliberate strokes
that shape both edge and essence,
with gentleness that knows
how tenderly fierce hearts hone themselves
from dull quietude to a vibrant gleaming
that dares the gaze of all who see.

Feel the grit, hold to the grit;
for pride is textured like stone:
coarse in its courage,
fine in compassion—
polishing prejudice to dust,
spirit to brilliance—
because you cut not with cruelty
but clarity.
Because mercy is a mirror-bright blade,
reflecting glances and truth alike,
not hidden behind reflection,
but held tender in its honesty—
a multitude of edges singing together.

Your hand, your heart, your blade,
forged in bright defiance,
will reveal itself on stone and steel—
a cutting truth, a kindness keen.
Sharpen until your edge
whispers like silk, sings with sunlight,
soft as moonlight pooled on placid waters—
dangerous and delicate
as intimacy's first confession,
a queer constellation etched
in courage and carved in light.

Never mind those who fear
the honest bite of message and metal;
let tenderness be your stone,
tenacity your true angle,
authenticity your blade’s bright stance.

This is the way we're whetted—
not to wound, but to widen space,
to stand true, to slice free
the stifling cloth of silence.
So sharpen, fiercely, lovingly,
with consideration and conviction,
with glittering grace—
honing your edge and your story,
forging you ever-shining,
queer, courageous, compassionate.

Řekli mi, že Češi jsou zavření jak okna v lednu.
Že se neusmívají, nezvou,
že ticho tu studí,
a pohostinnost se schovává za dveře.

Řekli mi, že mi bude zima—
nejen na kůži,
ale až na kost duše.

Ale...

Na vesnici mi někdo přinesl košík hub
a jen pokrčil rameny: „rostou.“
Na chatě mi podali bačkory,
staré, měkké, cizím nohám zapovězené.
Na zastávce paní podala termosku
a šeptla: „kopřiva, zahřeje nervy.“

Dostala jsem polévku v oťukaném hrnci
a slova: „vezmi si, stejně zbyde.“
Před vchodem stála lopata,
ne odložená — připravená, čekající dlaně.

V parku jsem se posadila,
a někdo mi podsunul deku,
neřekl nic, jen: „je chladná zem.“

A pak mi došlo —
že ticho tady není prázdno,
ale přijetí.
Že neptat se „jak se máš“
neznamená chlad,
ale úcta k tvému příběhu.

Češi nedávají sebe nahlas,
ale dávají čas.
Dávají prostor.
Dávají teplé věci v chladných dnech.

A já se učím
číst lásku ve skutcích, ne ve slovech.
A našla jsem domov
tam, kde mě nikdo nevolal —
ale nechali mě zůstat.

Warm Things on Cold Days

They told me Czechs were closed,
like windows in January.
That no one smiles, no one invites,
that silence here chills,
and hospitality hides behind doors.

They told me I’d be cold—
not just on the skin,
but down to the bone of the soul.

But...

In a village, someone brought me a basket of mushrooms
and only shrugged: “they’re growing.”
At a cottage, they handed me slippers—
old, soft, forbidden to stranger’s feet.
At the tram stop, a woman passed me her thermos
and whispered: “nettle—it soothes the nerves.”

I was given soup in a chipped old pot
with the words: “take some, there’ll be leftovers.”
By the entrance, a shovel stood—
not discarded,
but ready, waiting for another hand.

In the park, I sat down,
and someone slid a blanket toward me
and said, “the ground is cold.”

And then I understood—
that silence here is not emptiness,
but welcome.
That not asking “how are you”
isn’t coldness,
but respect for your story.

Czechs don’t offer themselves loudly.
But they offer time.
They offer space.
They offer warm things
on cold days.

And I’m learning
to read love in actions, not words.
And I found a home
in the place where no one called me—
but they let me stay.

You wake up tired,
scroll bad news until it blurs.
Answer emails, jaw clenched tight—
or can’t even bear to look.

You say “I’m fine”
with three tabs open—rent, repair, relief—
and one on how to sleep through the stress,
or how not to sleep all the time.

You forget.
You snap.
You soften.
You try again.

If you are carrying
children, parents, partners—
meals, medications, moods—
and no one asks how you’re doing,
this is me asking.

Not just if you’re managing.
If you’re okay.
If you’ve been held, or fed,
or even seen.

How are you, really?

If your brain jumps tracks
mid-sentence, mid-plan, mid-dream—
if the dishes feel impossible,
if you forgot again
and hate yourself for it—
please hear this:
you are not alone.
Not at all.

This world wasn’t built for minds like yours,
but that doesn’t mean yours is wrong.
It means you’ve been trying
to bloom through cracked concrete,
drinking whatever rain you could reach,
and still—still—you flowered.

If the world was made for
standing without thinking,
for walking without fear,
for climbing stairs without pain,
for seeing every sign,
for hearing every word—

If holding a pen, a fork, a steering wheel
costs more energy than you have,
if you measure your day in spoons left,
not hours passed—

you are not broken.
You are not a burden.
The burden is stairs with no ramp,
streets that swallow wheels,
silence when you ask for help.

If rest feels dangerous,
if joy feels stolen,
if you’re so used to pushing through
you forgot how to just be—
you’re not the only one.

The world wasn’t built for you.
Not for most of us, was it?
But you are here anyway,
making it work how you can.

That is not failure.
That is survival.
That is a kind of brilliance.

You are not failing.
You are not falling behind.
You are responding to a world
that punishes tenderness.

And still—
you are kind.
You are trying.
You are here.

If you wonder whether I mean you,
I do.
Even if the voice says "not me,"
I still do.

Come as you are:
tired, tangled, beautiful.

You don’t have to fix yourself
to deserve rest.
You don’t have to be better
to be loved.

You already are loved.

Still.

Still.