There is the breast that gives milk,
and that which doesn’t;
and then, there are both, which feed us sparingly.
We, smiling, suck on the first,
we bite the second;
we sigh when we see they’re from the same mother.
One parent is our hero,
one is a mirror;
but both are bridges from us to the world.
Some heroes will fall from grace,
some mirrors crack;
our bridges, then, will break, and we can’t cross them.
Bravely, we’d walk on the water,
see wavy reflections
beneath our feet, our warped and rippled faces.
Thus, we ignore the storm,
feel still, calm waters,
blind to the splashing sea we’re drowning in.
We’d reach the other side,
the land of milk,
but all we have to drink is wind-tossed water.
The storm cannot be calmed
until it’s faced.
We see our faces blowing on the waves.
We see parental ghosts
inside our eyes,
the ruach blowing on the rolling seas.
They blow the wind into us,
we blow it out,
and all our gales break mirrors and bridges.
Our gusts make crests and troughs,
and gentle waves
will only come when we can calm the winds.
Bad ghosts blow hurricanes,
good ones blow breezes;
cast out the bad by letting in the good.
The good are our new heroes:
they’ll mend the mirrors,
and help us build new bridges we can cross.
The winds of rage will slow down to a calm.
We’ll cross the bridges, reach the other side,
and drink the milk of bliss and mutual love.