Open Openly ~ Alan Felsenthal

Bless Tuesday, blessed Monday.

Bless the word week, its seven

small days trail with y.

Bless the men whose words

I was too young to hear.

A whisper loves a canal.

Bless my laugh, lent by grief,

I have so little left to borrow.

But my hair, it grows—

if hair be gold, cut mine so

I might rid my beloved

of his student loans. Bless

thieves, universities, those

hands caress what’s not theirs.

Bless thinking it was yours.

Here are hands, blessed one.

Bless them holding the door.

Bless each crier on the F

train before and after me

as they blush, as they transfer

into tunnels for the red line.

Oh bless, bless wildly, what

remains to be done. Bless

the one who told me so,

the ones who didn’t.

Even weak breaths bless.

Bless weakness, fragile fortress,

my friend’s body absent

of soundness. Bless the sound

of someone reliable answering

your call, saying If you’re going

through hell, Hello. Hello.

Bless being able to respond

when a loved one asks

Can you tell I’m miserable?

I can hear it, elastic sadness,

distinctive as a summons:

appear and pronounce. Bless

you, my beloved, coming,

leaving, staying a while,

the tone of being unharmed,

deep as a sound sleep. Bless

the channel between us, your

tiny boat, your body in a body

of water that connects to larger

bodies. Bless these sensations:

when lost, hear a tender voice.