By Hava Pincas-Cohen
At this time as I stand cooking oatmeal,
Remove all sorts of alien thoughts from me
And when I touch the baby's back and and take his temperature
May all sorts of problems disappear,
May they not confuse my thoughts.
And give me the strength to scrub my face
So that each one of my children
Can see his face in mine
As in a mirror washed for a festival.
And the darkness sunk within
My face - cover it with light
So that I don't lose my patience, and I won't be hoarse
From coarse, insistent screaming,
May I not experience weakness
Before the unknowable
And may it never end, even for a moment,
The touch of flesh upon flesh, my children's and mine.
Give me so much of Your love
That I can stand at the door and hand it out
With the simplicity of someone slicing bread
And smearing butter every morning
Renew the sweet offering of boiling milk bubbling over
and the smell of coffee hovering above
The thanksgiving sacrifice and the daily sacrifice
That I never learned how to give.
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