1793: Hanina's Letters | Elaina M. Ellis
"Hanina's Letters"
Elaina M. Ellis
I.
A friend once claimed she saw my hair spell words
in wild cursive on the pillow, while I drooled on into sleep.
A poet, even when you snore, she said. I said, I don't snore!
She said, Metaphor. I said, Right. But is it true about my hair?
Then I thought...it makes a certain sense:
the burning bush that is my hair, my hair that curls
because I am a Jew, would speak a burning word
or two out of the desert of my sleep. Oh,
that is deep! I said. She said, What? I said, Exactly. What?
What are we, if not poetry of family tree?
She said, But,
I said, What?
She said, What language did your hair leak onto pillow?
I said, You tell me!
She said, See, you were spelling fast. I didn't think to ask.
So I said, Language of the past!
You know that Jews read backwards, right?
She said, Books read right to left?
I said, Yes, time-travel style!
She said, We are in the future?
I said, Yes, and my hair is in the past.
She said nothing. I said, Hair is in the past!
She just laughed and said, I'm out. This is too queer,
and then she passed out on the couch. I watched her hair
for minutes in the moonlight. Straight as grass. Silent
as dew. I twirled my curls and sighed, it's true. It's queer
to be a poet. A poet and a Jew.
II.
Two thousand years ago, a teacher called Hanina
preached Torah. Tender. Always blushing,
as if it were a letter from a lover. Meanwhile,
the Romans roamed the desert, arm in arm
destroying all things Jew.
Hanina's friends warned,
They're coming for you, but still the Rabbi read sweet
messages from G-d, until the Romans found
a vestige of his teachings. They caught him,
reaching thirsty toward the heavens,
pulling stories from the text. The Romans told his students,
watch this lesson, while they rolled him up in the Torah,
and let a slow torch take the scroll. The students
cried, Hanina,
please, what do you see? The Rabbi called, The parchment,
it is burning. The letters are flying
free.
III.
Sixteen years ago, I left a love-note on the bathroom counter
in my parents' home. It was folded, like 8th grade notes were folded
back then. My mother found the note, unwrapped my secret,
and read it back to me from memory. I cried. Denied. Swore,
I'm not gay, we only play like this.
Don't want to kiss her, like I said!
Eww, no, don't want her in my bed,
and Mom just shook her head, then recommended therapy.
I found the note and burned it later (they can't prove
what they can't see) and we didn't talk about it again 'til I was 23,
but all that time, I knew they knew me.
Here's the thing:
despite the shame, I was relieved. The paper had burned,
but the truth was out there, flying free.
Rabbi Hanina: I am embers. I can feel that's nothing
new. It's queer to be a
poet,
to be a
poet. A Jew. It's queer to be a
poet. To be. To be a.
to b
e.
To Be.
Before me the desert,/perhaps the Promised Land, too. That is my life span.
Elaina M. Ellis
I.
A friend once claimed she saw my hair spell words
in wild cursive on the pillow, while I drooled on into sleep.
A poet, even when you snore, she said. I said, I don't snore!
She said, Metaphor. I said, Right. But is it true about my hair?
Then I thought...it makes a certain sense:
the burning bush that is my hair, my hair that curls
because I am a Jew, would speak a burning word
or two out of the desert of my sleep. Oh,
that is deep! I said. She said, What? I said, Exactly. What?
What are we, if not poetry of family tree?
She said, But,
I said, What?
She said, What language did your hair leak onto pillow?
I said, You tell me!
She said, See, you were spelling fast. I didn't think to ask.
So I said, Language of the past!
You know that Jews read backwards, right?
She said, Books read right to left?
I said, Yes, time-travel style!
She said, We are in the future?
I said, Yes, and my hair is in the past.
She said nothing. I said, Hair is in the past!
She just laughed and said, I'm out. This is too queer,
and then she passed out on the couch. I watched her hair
for minutes in the moonlight. Straight as grass. Silent
as dew. I twirled my curls and sighed, it's true. It's queer
to be a poet. A poet and a Jew.
II.
Two thousand years ago, a teacher called Hanina
preached Torah. Tender. Always blushing,
as if it were a letter from a lover. Meanwhile,
the Romans roamed the desert, arm in arm
destroying all things Jew.
Hanina's friends warned,
They're coming for you, but still the Rabbi read sweet
messages from G-d, until the Romans found
a vestige of his teachings. They caught him,
reaching thirsty toward the heavens,
pulling stories from the text. The Romans told his students,
watch this lesson, while they rolled him up in the Torah,
and let a slow torch take the scroll. The students
cried, Hanina,
please, what do you see? The Rabbi called, The parchment,
it is burning. The letters are flying
free.
III.
Sixteen years ago, I left a love-note on the bathroom counter
in my parents' home. It was folded, like 8th grade notes were folded
back then. My mother found the note, unwrapped my secret,
and read it back to me from memory. I cried. Denied. Swore,
I'm not gay, we only play like this.
Don't want to kiss her, like I said!
Eww, no, don't want her in my bed,
and Mom just shook her head, then recommended therapy.
I found the note and burned it later (they can't prove
what they can't see) and we didn't talk about it again 'til I was 23,
but all that time, I knew they knew me.
Here's the thing:
despite the shame, I was relieved. The paper had burned,
but the truth was out there, flying free.
Rabbi Hanina: I am embers. I can feel that's nothing
new. It's queer to be a
poet,
to be a
poet. A Jew. It's queer to be a
poet. To be. To be a.
to b
e.
To Be.
Before me the desert,/perhaps the Promised Land, too. That is my life span.