Elegy for Hannah Brockman

On the day of your

Bat Mitzvah, you twirled

beneath the snow,

your unpierced tongue

extending

like an ophidian

from a cleft, trans-

muted from a staff,

tasting the sacred

nectar

of the sky, as if a Levite

under manna;

knowing cold can

speak of love as

well as warmth,

when the flakes will

plunge together

by the trillions,

parachute

out the nimbus—

vowing to drape

your spirit like

a quilt; yet

not so flushed

they’d fall as limpid

rain; trickling

like a creek from out your

eye, spilling in the

dirge of human mourning,

then freezing like the

wax along the sides of

Shabbat candles,

or maybe they were

Seder, when the light

can grieve no more,

when the smell of

rose & lily

comes and goes,

petals fastened tightly

in the dusk, fearing

they’ll be pried on

hallowed ground,

once the footfall

of the night

has shed its shoes.

Andreas Gripp

June 22, 2025

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