Silver Spice Box
I open the door
to fill your tiny chamber
with whole cloves
the besamim
perfume my fingers
Here is the border
between rest
and what follows
The filigree
bordering
the everyday
This silver spire
rests in my palms,
consoles me
The spice box is a tower
guarding the city
Tower of oncoming
night, held
by my ancestors,
handed to me
Written: June 13, 2022
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Reflections
Portraying ritual
Click here to view spice towers in the MFA Boston collection (on which this poem is based). How does the poem portray interaction with these objects? How would you feel, if you were the poet, if you were able to touch and hold these ritual items in the museum's collection?
Write
Click here to explore Judaica items on Kolture. Write your own poem about one of these objects.
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