Counting the Omer Through Poetry


11 toward the Omer

Library dreams. Stir awake, turn head. My love disappears between bookshelves.
Refocus. Tamira has taken up residence in the next chair over.

Swing around, legs over armrest. We watch a squirrel recover food.
Are you all right? she says. Your toes are red, she says.

They’re warm, she says. Mental note for shidduch resume: warm feet.
Come here, she says. Obligingly lean forward. Hand upon my forehead.

You’re warm, she says. You’ve got a fever, dear, she says.
I say Whenever I think I might have a fever and 

ask someone if I have a fever I never actually have
a fever It’s funny It makes me feel special when I

actually have a fever It’s like relationships and I go silent.
I say I’m going to write today’s Omer poem about this.

Dedicate it to me, my friend says. I say I will.


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