Praying in the Police Precinct
the warehouse a house of worship
our tallits tucked away in plastic
bags along with our belongings
but no prayer shawls needed for
our prayers
our bodies boundaried by a
makeshift mechitza down the middle
a segregating separation of perceived sex
(though I am no traditional Jew)
“women” on the left, “men” on the right
my t4t spouse and I straddling the line
we begin with ashrei
“how good it is to dwell in Your house!”
as if we weren’t zip-tied
as if we weren’t a kind of captive
we made it all the way
to “God is gracious and compassionate
slow to anger and abounding
in kindness” before being warned:
it is illegal to sing in the precinct
continue and get charged
additional crimes
“it’s prayer!” we protested
only silent prayer is allowed
never mind that even our
silent prayer is voiced
(God spoke the world
into being – we speak
our prayers into being)
a protestant privilege precluding us
our unfinished prayer of
gratitude lingered
in the air and in our ears
defiance welled up in
me like a birthday balloon
I sought my spouse’s
eye from across the aisle
on my lips another prayer
I wanted to share
the shehecheyanu
(prayer of firsts)
thank You God for giving
us life, sustaining us, bringing
us to this moment
even in this moment
it took three
tries to mouth
“shehecheyanu”
before they understood
under our breath audible to us
alone we prayed
in the police precinct
how good it is
to protest and pray!
how good it is
to feel our hands go numb
in our restraints
and hear our bellies grumble
with complaint
and know our misery
is only for a day!
how good it is
to be anything at all
alive, alive!
and how often I’ve forgotten
how stupid lucky we are
even in this moment
*
The Joy Planter
one does not cultivate joy
like a garden: store-bought soil
packed with manufactured nutrients
cedar planters’ scent
warding off insects and other pests
garden hose precisely placed (perhaps timered)
water flowing from an unknown source
chicken wire for the rabbits
who would nibble your joy away
one cultivates joy
like a scattering of seeds
precariously planted with a full fist
and your best non-athlete’s pitch
like a plant you continue to water
even after it’s already dead
like the succulent you ignored too well
and if you’re lucky
joy can grow like the forgotten acorn
a squirrel buried last spring
which it fully intended on eating
and is now sprouting into a tiny oak seedling
sometimes with sights set
on flower pots or garden beds
I miss the accidental plantings
from seeds squirreled away
and the surprise is half the joy
*
Ariel Tovlev (he/they) is a poet, educator, and rabbi. He has a BFA in Poetry from the University of British Columbia and an MFA from Chapman University. They have been published in Wayfarer Magazine, Pensive Journal, ONE ART, and various CCAR Press titles. They live in the Maryland suburbs of DC with their spouse, four cats, and a multitude of houseplants.