וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי לְעוֹלָם
וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי בְּצֶדֶק
וּבְמִשְׁפָּט וּבְחֶסֶד וּבְרַחַמִים.
וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי בֶּאֶמוּנָה
וְיָדַעַתּ אֶת ה׳
I will betroth you to Me forever,
I will betroth you to Me with justice,
and with impeccability, and with love, and with compassion.
I will betroth you to Me in faith.
And then you will know G-d.
(Hosea 2:21-22, liturgy)
I say the m'shaneh habriyot – or I would,
If I ever found myself, wide-eyed in the mirror
Bindings consuming me whole.
I imagine the tefillin I lay fits me much like they were intended: dangling
with extra length off a scrawny arm.
A boy cousin aged 13,
Testosterone yet to hit the system.
A kohen with no will to pray, a forgotten gift from a disengaged elder– But I've always loved hand-me-downs.
With impeccability, with love, with compassion.
I earn my betrothal semi-frequently—not with the commitment it deserves, But with an unbidden devotion nonetheless.
When I bind, I freeze before sneaking a glance at my reflection.
Is it working? Am I fooling them?
I hang a sheet in my mind over the warped glass.
My mother has done the same, to the wide-framed mirror above her bathroom sinks.
We both mourn her daughter.
But at the very least, I am betrothed.