Mizmor L'David Anthology 


Poetica Magazine
                                           Contemporary Jewish Writing

Davida Washer loves the arts. She graduated from UTEP with a Vocal Performance degree. An unknown illness caused her to return to poetry in 2016 after loosing the ability to speak. Her poems speak of her disability, mental health, Jewish and Hispanic life, loss of music, and virginity in her 30’s.

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Davida Washer

 A glass shatters of its own accord, but it is forbidden to

Use the broom within reach, the broom for non-observant days.

The liquid beautifully mixes with shards of glass and

Flirtatious prisms of color, calling in the Sabbath.

The accumulation of soupy matter sitting on the

Far end of the counter dribbles with great care and

Gently splashes your homemade crochet slippers which,

Thank The Almighty, you have chosen to wear this morning.

It would be pure shame to intermingle your hand with

Tools or trinkets of beauty, so you remain covered under a

Wiry wig nestled with lies and hordes of Babylonian

Lust shielded from the eyes of God and gentiles.

Such a tumultuous start to a day filled with

Peace and prayer and pareve dishes overly

Salted in lieu of flavor beckoning to the

Ancestors who bore your sins and drank your

Guilt greedily from the hands of Grandfathered misers.

Your sons rush in to greet you followed by the

Holiness of the day, but you are frozen. Torn between

Tradition laced with rules and the curse of the law upon which the

Foundation of your home has nestled itself safely.

Without hesitation you are given the broom by

Your husband, the head of your household along with

A morning kiss slathered in comfort and morning breath.

He will understand, your husband assures you of God’s

Reaction to such labor on the Sabbath.

Clean the shards of the glass and milky remnants

And hide from your sin beneath layers of

Kosher clothing and Torah and such a lack of

Understanding, it hurts to strain that you are crushing beneath

The freedom of truth.

Davida Washer

My love seems unconditional, like that of a
Suckling newborn, but it is not. Dredged in
Endless curiosities and wrapped in


Cocooned by
          layer upon layer
          of suspicion and
Fear for which you lose to the warrior of
Laziness and greed.

My mind is flippant and blissful with a
Sturdy call to Mitzvah, underhanded by
Piercings and red matte lipstick currently
Drying out the plump of my lips.

Love is a craving, an obsession over which one
Swoons before understanding has a chance to
Take hold of such innocent notions.

Ahava, the true meaning of devotion devoid of
Selfishness and “speaking your truth” are never lost
Upon the one who made you to love and bare the
Beauty of life’s pain.

In such a labyrinth of fear, there is a
Guide. Straining to sustain the umbilical cord of
Jewish connection and love,

You lose
Die to yourself to be reborn in