The Invisible Shrine Poem by Esther Dagan

Invisible. Hidden within my soul, a shrine.
Folded, wrinkled in, memories of spirits.
My compass. The torch to the light of my north.
The spirits of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
The spirits of judges, kings and prophets.
The spirits of warriors, heroes, sinners, poets.
And my ancestors weeping on the shores of Babylon
Still weeping at the Wailing Wall.

Invisible. Hidden within my soul, a shrine.
Folded, wrinkled in, memories of families and loved ones.
My compass. The torch to my future passed.

The spirits of many I loved and long have gone.
The spirits of my parents, a grandfather who named me Malka.
The spirit of my daughter, a butterfly above an erupting volcano.
And my first love, a trumpet player in an army band.
On his grave: “Sacrificed his life to free Jerusalem 1930-1948”.

Invisible. Hidden within my soul, a shrine.
Folded, wrinkled in, memories of foreign deities.
The spirits of Telem, Njoku, Mamiwata, Eshu and Kalunga.

Periodically, masked in full regalia all reappear.
On Jewish holidays, on national and memorial days.
Enchanting, uplifting and elevating my spirit to the sublime.
and deeply engraved in my multiple mixed identity.
My compass. The torch leading to my daughter’s grave.