In This Place
God was in this place and I did not know it.
What I felt did not matter
what I said, I said to no one
and anyway, it was nonsense
and anyway, it was a whisper
and anyway, I didn’t mean it.
God was a name I heard once
in a story someone told me.
A story when I was so young that
everything around me was huge
and I was small.
Was God small like me? Or big like them?
I didn’t know.
I wasn’t sure.
I asked questions:
Is God beautiful?
Does God sleep?
Where does God go when I sleep?
And what about food?
And does God wear clothes?
And what about tooth brushing—does God have to do that?
Now I am older.
Now I am old. My knees make
cracking noises and sound
like they’re breaking apart
but it’s just me, walking around.
Is God hearing this?
Who said this was okay?
Last night, in a dream
I looked for you.
I thought you would know if God was still around—
how to see
him? it? her?
What to call, how to name.
I thought you had wisdom.
I thought you were smart.
When we were young you loved to talk.
We talked about whatever our brains landed on,
one stone to the next—
light-footed, sure, easy.
You never tired.
We were twenty-two.
Nothing seemed true
until we could discuss it together.
Did we talk about God?
Your blue eyes made sparks—
what was that?
Or did your eyes open wider than anyone else’s?
Or did your eyes warm the room?
Or did I fall into them?
Your eyes are beautiful.
God is supposed to be beautiful.
Your eyes were beautiful.
When I pray now, I struggle to name God.
Beautiful One, Divine One,
One-ness, Wholeness,
Hey You Out There.
Is God in me, my home, my mezuzah on the doorframe?
If I kiss the mezuzah before I walk inside, will God see me?
If I pray, if I say the words
is God in my mouth? In my breath when I exhale?
I wonder if God saw you.
Did God see you
trying as hard as you could
to live?
As chemicals were pumped into your body
as your hair fell out
as you were held
as you breathed
as you moved from one place to the next?
I see you on the inside of my eyelids,
in my dreams.
See you in old, curling photographs,
in the red notebook I always carried with me,
in faded ink on paper.
I guess God is here now.
I guess I want that.
I want to glimpse the truth
and un-truth of it all, the way you saw it.
The way your blue eyes sparked—
held the whole world and its promises.
Amy Steingart’s poetry collection Her Belly Made of Wings was published in 2025, and her first collection I Am Where You Have Put Your Eggs was published in 2019, both from Small White Cat Press. She is a co-founder, editor, and contributor to “Writers’ Bloc” and is published in Lame Duck, Kind Writers, Poetica, Pandemic and RitualWell among others. Amy writes her own versions of standard Jewish prayers reflecting today’s challenging world. She is inspired to write by listening to John Coltrane, harvesting dreams, and practicing Judaism. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
