Three Selections from The Golem Returns

(with thanks to Marvin Bell, Steve Kuusisto, and Bob Herz)

The Golem Talks to Herself on Día de los Muertos

The Golem says, I see you, jellyfish, rageless drops suspended on the black kitten’s back.
It’s too bad that my Smith Corona was thrown down those stairs, the Golem quips.
Shit, I miss her, daily, she adds.
She knows she could write 99 lines hanging up tomorrow’s election.
The first snow is at a quarter to seven, so the black kitten climbs the screen.
The gray sigil kitten crouches beside enjambment.
We all watch the wood railing robins with the Golem, remembering early March.
March, the Golem says, fell early with its own leaves.

What Happened Next

The Golem’s second is a Midrash, and her first is a Torah.
She is not joking, as far as you know.

The Golem Joins Me to Read Moby-Dick

The Golem speaks through the burning bush.
I didn’t know the burning bush was invasive, but she did.
She washes the cherry headboard with a wet tissue.
The Golem knows I’m trying to remember where I put the dog scrimshaw.
The dog scrimshaw might be in a box, or tucked into a foiled can under the closet stairs.
We listen to Moby-Dick in pandemic Thanksgiving.

What Happened Next

The Golem eats containers of acorn squash and bread made in someone else’s home.
She has no gender, and neither does the food.
The Golem says that pronouns are over-rated, so she prefers NC-17.
She has a sense of humor, but it’s not her sixth sense.
The Golem counts things without obsession.
She climbs cloud cover to piss into the wind.
The Golem says that the dryer turns into life, if you listen closely.
She hangs out with Benjamin’s ghosts, and you can pick which Benjamin she means.
The Golem asks in the third person who the second person is addressing.
She amuses herself, whatever you might think.

The Golem and I Meet The Great Conjunction

The Golem and I did some research and then we looked up.
Using your own body-mind is a lot different from what scrolling can teach us, she says.
Sure, the Golem admired the Dead Sea Scrolls—from the get-go—but that’s another story.
The last time Jupiter and Saturn were this intimate, it was nearly 400 years ago.
Maybe the Golem was just a baby, then, but so were you, she laughs.
We hang out like this all of the time, and no one seems to notice.
No one is not very observant, apparently, so no one should look up, too.

What Happened Next

Clouds obscure the conjunction, but we don’t care.
Important stuff is not just about visuality, she says.
We go outside to talk through the trees to the planets, thanking them.
The Golem picks me up when I slip in snow, because that’s how we roll.

Published by:

Diane R. Wiener

Diane R. Wiener (she/they) is the author of The Golem Verses (Nine Mile Press, 2018), Flashes & Specks (Finishing Line Press, 2021), and The Golem Returns (swallow::tale press, 2022). Her poems also appear in Nine Mile Magazine, Wordgathering, Tammy, Queerly, The South Carolina Review, Welcome to the Resistance: Poetry as Protest, Diagrams Sketched on the Wind, Jason’s Connection, the Kalonopia Collective’s 2021 Disability Pride Anthology, and elsewhere. Diane’s creative nonfiction appears in Stone Canoe, Mollyhouse, The Abstract Elephant Magazine, and Pop the Culture Pill. Her flash fiction appears in Ordinary Madness; short fiction is published in A Coup of Owls. She has poetry and creative nonfiction forthcoming in eMerge. Diane has published widely on disability, pedagogy, and empowerment, among other subjects. She blogged for the Huffington Post between May 2016 and January 2018. Diane served as Nine Mile Literary Magazine’s Assistant Editor after being Guest Editor for the Fall 2019 Special Double Issue on Neurodivergent, Disability, Deaf, Mad, and Crip poetics. Since January 2020, Diane has been the Editor-in-Chief of Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature, housed at Syracuse University.

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