Workshop

Summer

2008-05-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

I’ve tired of this place. The days
are long, drawn, heat-heavy.
and I’m heavy, like stone.

Not a cornerstone, or a headstone.
Not the stone that Amichai wrote.
I’m burdened with a home
where the language doesn’t cut
like stone, the people aren’t sharp
like stone, no stone monuments to death
in children’s parks, no stones thrown
across highways tinged with red.

It’s not natural, you know.
The Western Wall of Stone stays cool
while hot tears flow, while the heat beats
with the heartbeat of my heart,
and my heart is heavy like stone.

The Elusive Prose Poem

2008-03-17T11:21:00.000-07:00

In the garden there lived a snake and two humans. One was a man. One was a woman. The snake fell in love with the woman, but she only had eyes for the man. In his misery, the snake began to eat. He slunk around the garden, snipping berries from shrubs, moss from rocks, eating round the garden in decreasing concentric circles. He put on quite a bit of weight. Finally, he worked his way to the center of the garden and saw a tree with indeterminate fruit on its branches. Easily enough, he crawled up the trunk and nibbled on the fruit that tasted like grapes, dates, citrons and wheat all at once. It was delicious, despite the strange hybridization. The lovesick snake was epiphanized. He sailed down the tree, across the garden to where the man and the woman lay entwined on the grass. They didn’t notice the snake because they were too busy combing each other’s bodies with their eyes. The snake sidled up alongside the man and nipped his backside. The man got up to tend to his wound, leaving the woman alone on the grass. Whereas the snake slid up to the woman and licked her face. How sweet, she exclaimed. She raised herself to her side and stroked his neck. The snake motioned with his head for her to follow him, and led her to the tree in the center of the garden. I mustn’t, said the woman, bad for my stomach. Well, if you insist... And she plucked a fruit from the tree and bit into it. Her eyes opened wide as she looked around. When they settled on the snake, she jumped. A snake, a snake she cried. The man came running (as quick as he could with an ice pack glued to his backside). My darling, my angel, my cliche of cliches What is it? he cried. A snake, a snake she cried. So? he asked. The woman berated him, You ignoramus Don’t you know that snakes are horrible, hideous, dangerous? Of course, the man didn’t know, and he was embarrassed in front of the woman. How do you know this? he demanded, disguising his emasculation with bravado. The woman paused. I think it’s the fruit, she said, though she knew this was silly. The man, not knowing it was silly and not wanting the woman to call him an ignoramus again, picked a fruit from the tree and bit into it. He pondered the taste, and his eyes grew wide as he fixed on the snake. A snake, a snake he cried. And the man and the woman ran out of the garden. And the snake scurried after them, crying, wait, wait

Amnon

2008-03-10T21:29:00.000-07:00

My days were measured by the length of her hair.
At the nape of her neck, I noticed her.
At her shoulders, my own stood up straighter.
At the spot on her back where my finger would stop
had I traced chills down the length of her spine-
I broke into a sweat.

Inch by inch, I suffered. Inch by inch, I stared.
My medusa, she silenced me to stone
with a glance- me, a prince among men.
A statue of perpetual want among men.
(But I swear, when she said, Good morning,
brother, I became human again.)

Longer, longer, her dark red hair dug its way
into my eyes, her long dark red waves haunted
my nights. I bit my fist to stifle my dreams,
to stifle the fear that our brother Avshalom
would learn of my dreams. I bit hard on my fist
and bled red, dark red...

I could swear I loved her. I could swear that’s what
I whispered in her ear, that night. But she was crying
so loud. I don’t know why she was crying so loud.
I love you, I’d said. She didn’t care. I put my hand
over her mouth to stifle her screams. It was not
how I’d dreamed it would be. After,

she lay splayed across my bed, her long dark red
cries seeping into the night, her face blackened and blued
(when did that happen?) her hair- extinguished flames-
and I wondered, had I ever thought this gorgon lovely?
I yanked her by her snakes and threw her out.
Blinded my eyes to the light in hers that went out.

As she dragged herself away, trailing red, I stared
at the spot on her back where my fingers had touched
when I pulled her down into bed. I suffered as she walked,
towards Avshalom, no doubt, shuddered
at what he would do when he found out. And I knew.
My days were numbered by the length of her hair.

Amnon

My days were measured by the length of her hair.
At the nape of her neck, I noticed her.
At her shoulders, my own stood up straighter.
At the spot on her back where my finger would stop
had I traced chills down her spine- I broke into a sweat.

Inch by inch, I suffered. Inch by inch, I stared.
My medusa, she silenced me to stone with a glance-
me, a prince among men. A statue of perpetual want
among men. (But I swear, on the days when she said,
Good morning, brother, I became human again.)

Longer, longer, her dark red hair dug its way into
my eyes, her long dark red waves haunted my nights.
I bit my fist to stifle my dreams, to stifle my fears
that our brother Avshalom knew of my dreams.
I bit down hard on my fist and bled red, dark red...

I could swear I loved her. I could swear that’s what
I whispered in her ear, that night. But she was crying
so loud. I don’t know why she was crying so loud.
I put my hand over her mouth to stifle her screams.
It was not how I’d dreamed it would be.

After, she lay in bed, her long dark red cries
seeping into the night, hair splayed across my pillow
like extinguished flames- my medusa, hideous to behold.
I yanked her by her snakes and threw her out.
Blinded my eyes to the light in hers that went out.

As she dragged herself away, trailing red, I stared
at the spot on her back where my fingers had touched
when I pulled her down into bed. I suffered to think
what Avshalom would do when he found out. And I knew.
My days were numbered by the length of her hair.

Because

2008-03-02T04:39:00.000-08:00

It was just because I happened to be at a certain place at a certain time. The bus pulled up as I was walking past the bus stop, and I made a split second decision. I plunged into the amorphous jumble that constitutes an Israeli line and was immediately surrounded by a group of six or seven black hatted, black suited, and for the most part, black bearded Israeli men, all trying to push their way onto the bus.
“Hey you!” someone shouted at me. “Women in the back!”
I pretended not to understand the Hebrew.
“Hey you! Women in the back!”
I looked down the length of the accordion bus and saw a group of bespectacled, bewigged, bestockinged women shuffling onto the bus through the back door.
“Sorry, don’t speak Hebrew,” I said, and forged ahead. The men scattered, terrified of my touch, then regrouped to shut me out in an effective latticework of bodies. It was a difficult time for me. Being an American, I lacked the aggressiveness that seemed to propel Israelis forward through time and bus lines. But being an American, I refused to relinquish my rights.
These ultra-orthodox Israeli, chareidi men, had no concept of rights or Rosa Parks, and their unusually tight cluster almost prevented me from getting on the bus. Almost.
The last man had elbowed his way in front of me with astonishing finesse. He was about to close me out. I had to think fast. As he lifted his leg to step onto the bus, I touched my hand to his forearm. He turned, stared down at my hand on his forearm, looked up into my face, and I smiled.
“Sliha,” I said, in an exaggerated American accent.
His face contorted into a picture of pure horror, and he jumped back. I stepped onto the bus merrily and the doors closed on the poor, dumbstruck chareidi.
On the bus, I flashed my monthly bus pass at the driver. He was not bearded or hatted. He wasn’t even yarmulkahed. He nodded, then said to me, “Women in the back.”
“Sorry, don’t speak Hebrew,” I said.
He shrugged.
I surveyed my pick of seats from the front of the bus, and saw that the men had gravitated towards the end of their segregated sector, leaving the two front seats open (an unusual occurence). I sat down directly behind the bus driver.
“Driver, this is an outrage!” came a voice to my right. A black hatted, red bearded chareidi sat on the other side of the aisle, visibly agitated.
“She must go to the back of the bus!” he said in Hebrew.
The bus driver sighed.
“Miss,” he addressed me in accented English. “Miss, women must to sit in the back.”
“Why?” I asked in English.
“Because. You want to sit in front, you must to take different bus. This bus is separate.”
“I get nauseous when I sit in the back.”
“What did she say?” the red bearded chareidi asked the driver.
“What is this, noushuss?” the driver asked me.
“Sick. I will get sick if I sit in the back of the bus.”
The driver turned towards the red bearded chareidi. “She gets sick if she sits in the back.”
“Nonsense! Women must sit in the back of the bus!”
The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, trying to size me up.
“Miss,” he said again in English. “Please move to the back.”
“This is a public bus. I’m staying here.”
“Nu?” said the red bearded chareidi.
“She’s getting off the bus very soon,” the driver told him.
“An outrage! It is not proper for a woman to sit with men!”
“He says it is not right for the woman to sit with the men,” the driver offered me. “These men,” he nodded towards the red bearded chareidi, “don’t like to look at woman. Only wifes. No pretty girls like you.”
“If he doesn’t want to look at me,” I returned the offer, “he can move to the back.”
“What did she say?” asked the red bearded chareidi.
“She’s getting off the bus soon,” the driver repeated.
“This is not America,” the red bearded chareidi spat at the driver. “This is not America!”
“He says this is not America.”
“It’s not Europe either,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nu?” The red bearded chareidi looked expectantly at the driver. He had yet to look at me at all.
“What can I do?” the driver said to him. “She is a stubborn American.”
“This is not America!”
“Why you make trouble?” the driver asked me.
I was silent.
“Women in back. Simple. No punishment. Just is. Why you make trouble?”
I was silent. I could sense the muttering of the women in the back of the bus.
The red bearded chareidi began his appeal to the man behind him.
“She can’t do this,” the red bearded chareidi pleaded fiercely.
“Nu, what can we do?”
“Make her sit in the back, with the other women.”
“Just ignore her,” a gray bearded chareidi enjoined. “Ignore her, and either you or her will soon be off the bus.”
“It’s not a matter of how long,” the red bearded chareidi argued. “It’s the principal of the matter. She is doing this davka l’hach’is, and I won’t have it!”
“If she is, as you say, doing this to intentionally incite you, then she’s having a grand success,” the gray bearded chareidi said softly. “Calm down.”
“She thinks this is America!”
“Maybe she thinks this is Tel-Aviv?” the bus driver chimed in. “Or even, God forbid, Jerusalem? It’s not everywhere in Israel that women sit in the back.”
“Well, on this bus they do,” retorted the red bearded chareidi.
“Okay. So here they do. But she’s not from here. She doesn’t know any better.”
“She knows. She’s doing this davka l’hach’is!”
“Tell me, brother, just looking at this girl will make you lose control?” the bus driver asked.
The red bearded chareidi bristled and the driver continued. “She is dressed b’tsniut. Trust me, I looked. Elbows, knees and neck are all covered and accounted for.”
“It doesn’t matter if she’s covered. A whore dressed as a princess is still a whore.”
I bristled. Maybe it was time to end my little experiment.
“Stop it,” the grey bearded chareidi said quietly. “This is a bas yisrael, a Jewish girl we’re talking about, albeit a bit misguided. She probably thinks that we are perpetrating a great injustice on our women. That sitting in the back of a bus is a sign of inferiority. She doesn’t realize that inferiority has nothing to do with it! That it is so very difficult for a man to look at a woman and keep his mind pure.” He sighed a long, heavy sigh. “She’s just a girl. What does she know of the mind of a man?”
“She’s at least twenty! She’s old enough to understand!”
“Maybe if we explain it to her...” the gray bearded chareidi ignored him. “Maybe if we explain our reasoning, she won’t think so poorly of us.”
I stared at the grey bearded chareidi while he stared into space. I stared at him until he looked at me, and when he finally did, I gave him a small smile. He smiled back, hesitantly. I reached up to press the red button that signaled the bus driver to stop.
“Shalom,” I said the bus driver.
“Shalom, troublemaker,” he said in English.
Instead of exiting through the front door, I walked towards the back of the bus. My eyes scanned the women’s expressions, and my face reddened under their scowls. I had been sitting in the front with their husbands.
I alighted from the bus and looked around. I found myself in a very chareidi neighborhood. I waited for the bus to drive off before crossing to the opposite side of the street. I sat down on a bench at the bus stop and waited for another bus to take me back in the direction I had come from.

Cafe Hillel

2008-02-25T09:08:00.000-08:00

hole -noun
1. An opening through something; gap: I walk through the hole in my head that leads me to, into other people. I see a girl I’ve never met, never seen before, sitting in my exact seat in Café Hillel. 2. A hollow place in a solid body or mass: There are two holes in the top of her head. Eyes. Two holes in her nose. One hole below, but I only know it’s a hole because I have the same one behind my lips; hers are twisted shut. There are other holes too. One on the left side of her head. Not her ear- an actual hole in the side of her head. There’s one where her heart should have been too. 3. The excavated habitation of an animal; burrow: Too late, too late, I let myself through the hole in my head that lets me see people I’ve never seen, hear thoughts I couldn’t possibly hear, and now it’s too late, I’m here, but I’d like to crawl into a hole and hibernate for years. I’d rather bury myself in a hole than see this poor girl in my seat. 4. A small, dingy or shabby place: I met her fiancé, once. Ex-fiance. He lives in the hole that they were supposed to live in after their wedding. One dingy bedroom, one dingy bed they would have shared, but now he sleeps alone. They would have made it a happy hole. 5. A place of solitary confinement; dungeon: He’s made it into a different kind of hole. He didn’t say so but I can tell. Sure, he goes off to school, work, his parents' house for shabbat so he’s not alone- but he doesn’t really go. Part of him is a prisoner in that hole, the part that would have been happy if the girl who sits in my seat at Café Hillel wasn’t dead. 6. An embarrassing situation or predicament: I dug myself into a hole, that one time we met. I let my guard down because he seemed whole. Hi, hello. What do you do? What do you do? I write, I said. I go to Café Hillel and write, I said. Café Hillel, where his fiancé was killed two weeks before their wedding. Where the bomb went off and made that gaping hole in her head. Christ, how could I have mentioned Café Hillel? 7. A cove or small harbor: I stole glances at his eyes. Holes where he sometimes sets down anchor and other times drifts away. When I mentioned Café Hillel, his body stayed, but he drifted away. 8. A fault or flaw: Forever and ever, I avoid him. But I see his fiancé sitting in Café Hillel, in my seat. Talk with ghosts, ignore the living. I know there’s a hole in my logic, but can’t say exactly what... 9. Black hole. In astronomy, an object so massive that nothing, not even light, can escape its gravitation. Black holes were given their name because they absorb all the light that falls on them: The hole in her head leaks gray matter and blood, the hole in my imagination leaks to her, she leaks into the dead holes of his eyes. I wish I was a black hole. Black holes absorb everything. Even light, even pain.

Winter

2008-01-13T04:44:00.001-08:00

I’ve tired of this place. The days are short,
the nights are cold, and I’m cold
all night and daytime too.

It didn’t used to be this way. Months ago the skies
were warm with promise and the sun beat stronger than
it ever did in New York, beat down on me
to match the rate of my own heart.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know
when things turned cold. I know
that the sun is the heart of Jerusalem;
in winter I exist on defibrillation.

Jerusalemites don’t know how to deal with winter.
They close the roads for two inches of snow.
I don’t know how to deal with this cold
light that burns instead of warms,
this “they” and “I” that have lodged themselves
in my throat.

Winter turns the buildings
rat gray, the color of New York snow.
I miss the summer sun that cast
the stone to gold.

I miss the thought that Jerusalem is home.

Tamar, aka Kedaisha

2008-01-10T03:54:00.000-08:00

Tamar, aka Kedaisha

His eyes went round as pitas
when he saw me.
Me, the whore.
Not me, the daughter-in-law.

I uncovered my face
as I lay in wait
for him to pass my way.
I knew this was his way,
the only way for this to happen.

I’d mourned long enough
for my two dead husbands.
(His sons.)
I guess he thought me bad luck
(or something)
because he wouldn’t let
his third son near me.

As if I had anything to do
with the deaths of those two idiots.
As if I was interested
in that prepubescent, patchy kid.

I wanted Him. Judah.
He was the Man.
Head of the clan.
Head of state.

So I went to wait at the crossroads
where he had to pass.
And believe me when I tell you-
when he saw me,
he was like humus in my hands.

Of course, he didn’t know
it was me.
How could he?
In his house, I was
proper and prim. Wore
the strictest face covering,
dressed head to toe in black.
Now, decked in my whore’s
attire, lace scarf around my neck
(lingerie of the Middle East)
--never in a million years
would he have dreamt
it was me.

As payment, I asked
for his ring, his cloak, his staff-
a stroke of genius, I have to say
(not to pat myself on the back)
-this way, if I gave birth,
I’d have proof
it was his.

As luck would have it,
I became pregnant.
Judah was outraged, indignant.
Slut! he cried.

The joke was on him.
I sent him his things-
his ring, his cloak, his staff-
recognize these?

Why did I do it, you ask?
I’ll tell you- it wasn’t for money,
power or land. It wasn’t even
love. Let’s just leave it at this-
if you’d have known Judah,
you’d understand.

Yocheved revised

2008-01-08T00:32:00.000-08:00

I gathered reeds from the bank of the Nile
and wove him a basket. A casket. No, it was a basket.
I cushioned the bottom with woolen blankets
and myrrh. You must know- I wanted my baby’s
resting place to be comfortable. I set the basket

in the water just off the shore. The Nile cradled him
in its gentle, lapping current. I couldn’t let go.
Miriam crouched down, ankle deep. She stroked my
baby’s cheek and he cooed. It’s time, Mother. My tears salted
the fresh running water. There’s only so much one can do

in this world. My fingers loosened their grip, and the basket-
it drifted. Aaron held onto my skirt, Miriam held onto
my hand. I sent them away. Follow him. They walked
along the shore, disappearing under the tall,
ruthless reeds. I stood alone on the bank of the Nile.

No mother should have to give up her child. It’s a pain
unlike any I’ve ever felt before. And you should know,
I’ve been through pain. I grew up in Egypt, a slave,
labored in the fields under the blistering semitic sun,
watched my husband stoop under the burden of days.

Three times I gave birth. I thought nothing could be
worse than that pain. I was wrong. Bearing children
is unbearable; giving them up is beyond. Do you know,
I didn’t even give him a name. My baby. Otherwise,
I could never have sent him away. He would have been

killed if I hadn’t. You know that. You know I’m not
to blame. And it worked out in the end- right? The story
is already written. But it leaves out my pain.
And you should know. We mothers are so helpless.
We bear these bodies, and then, nothing.

Moon Prayer

2007-12-31T12:27:00.001-08:00

The silver ring of the moon sits in the star-dimpled sky,
a steady, whispering watcher of years,
waxing and waning, and changing, changing-
but always the same silver moon in the sky,
unblinking its cool, moon-silvery eye.
And we blink back our tears
as the years go by.

Mother and Son

2007-12-31T12:18:00.000-08:00

After months of running away, my baby came home
smelling of sickness and vomit. Gently, I led him to the bath,
turned on the faucet, held his hand under the tap.
Too hot, and his eyes, ringed with red, gushed
redder, stinging, looking like he’d been slapped

by me. Baby, baby, where have you been?
Looking away, I undid a button, a zipper. His foot got stuck
in the leg of his pants. Take your sneakers off first,
I whispered. He held onto my shoulder for balance,
almost collapsed. Sat down on the toilet

and lifted his arms. I tenderly pulled up his shirt,
tried not to look, but saw his rib cage. And veins.
And fresh needle marks. Helped him into the tub,
turned off the tap, scared he would drown.
Took his hand in mine and opened it up,

placed the soap on his palm. It fell out
so I picked it up. Methodically washed his dark,
gritty skin, wanting to get rid of the dirt,
the pain. Washed over his arms, trying not to see.
Cleaning his cracked, splintered nails, I broke one

and he jumped. Sign of life. I remembered
a long time ago, he used to be small, and I
would wash his soft baby skin with soap that smelled
of lilies of the valley. He used to splash. Used to laugh.
And look at me in the eyes. Now his head hung limp, waiting

to fall off. Baby, baby, what happened to you?
I turned the soap into pumice, trying to scrape away
the stink of decay, but he clung to it
and it wouldn’t come off. I scrubbed his back,
his neck, his pustular toes. When I washed his chest

I could feel his heart pounding. Sign of life.
I ran my hands through his hair. Strands of grease.
Gingerly massaging his scalp, I picked out
half a band aid. Threw it in the trash and slammed
the lid shut. Then I picked him up from under his arms

and helped him out of the bath. He was shivering,
a mass of jelly. Wrapped him tight in a towel.
Touched my lips to his forehead and he was on fire.
He tried to swallow an aspirin, but threw it up. I dressed him
with fresh clothes and led him to his old room. He slept

like a baby. The next morning I woke up
and there was no sign of life. Baby, baby,
where did you go, why did you leave?
I sniffed at the air, thought I detected a faint trace of lilies,
but it was only the sweet smell of vomit.

Hemingway’s Bride

2007-12-31T10:25:00.000-08:00

I met him that long-ago day in Marseille. He wore
his bravado on his handsome face, swaggered up to me,
cigar in place, projecting an aura of masculine
grace, boasting a case of beer and a powder keg;

preparing for war, front lines, he said.
He was hit in the leg. But that was better than dead.
Beside the hospital bed, I patted his back
as he retched and he bled, incoherently begged,

that when he was all better, we would move on
together, together as one, and of course I said
yes, why I would feel truly blessed to be your wife,
your lover, dutiful mother of the children we’ll have.

And so it was done. We married in France, my heart
set on romance, he turned off the light, took off
his pants, I said, it’s okay Hem, you’re not fully well.
He said, go to hell, and left in a huff.

Next morning he cried, apologized for
the stuff he had said, last night in bed, it was just
words, words, just nerves, nerves, but enough was enough.
Never opened up again after that, said talking of feelings

was feminine crap. He preferred to chat about bullfights,
boxing and gore. What a bore. He went out to parties
discussing the war. Drinking martinis he damned Mussolini
with Sherwood and Pound, then he’d quiet down

and go to his favorite café in the square,
and write about war as if he was still there, heroic
and bloody all over again, drowning in gin,
and cognac and wine. He was out all the time,

with Gertrude Stein, imposing and stoic, I thought they were
brothers. Gerty taught Hem and the others to write,
but they couldn’t write like him, or fight like him,
F. Scott Fitzgerald had nothing on him. Hem made sure I knew

that Fitz was a sniveling, brown-nosing Jew. And a faggot,
too. Homophobic nut. When he heard that Gatsby
was topping the charts, he coughed up a gut, stayed in bed
for a month. I lived life as normal, he called me a slut.

So I went to Fitzgerald and took him to bed. I’ll never forget
the precise hue of red that Hem turned when I said
that Fitz did it better than he ever did. Priceless!
Livid, Hem came after me with his fists,

ticklish, I laughed. Breathing fire, incensed, he swung
and he missed. I collapsed into fits
at his stark impotence, even when he hauled me
out of the house by my hair, threw me on my ass,

I bounced and I laughed. Then I left France,
and never looked back. Till thirty years I heard
of his death, had to return to see what was left
of the man who had hated that feminine crap,

who claimed he was brimming with life
and with vigor. I wasn’t surprised one bit when I learned,
that he was the one who pulled on the trigger
that blasted the bullet deep into his brain.

Villanelles

2007-12-03T23:26:00.000-08:00

Ghost

remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said,
your everything imprinted on my heart-
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head

though I’m still young, with years ahead,
my everything, it’s torn apart
remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said

awake at night, you’re in my bed,
your warmth, your smell, just won’t depart,
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head

the tears, the tears, the tears I’ve shed,
the soggy gasps at a fresh start-
remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said

I’ve tried warm milk and pills instead
and therapy, state of the art-
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head

and all the years that you’ve been dead
I’ve done my part, I’ve mourned my part,
remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head.

Love Song

Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot,
let me wither up and die and run my eyes until they’re dry,
and oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.

Cross-continental, we were bound by an unintelligible knot
I came to be with you, Jerusalem, unable fully to say why
Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot.

I gave up everything I had, I gave you everything I’ve got
family, friends, money, heart- at the airport we waved goodbye-
and oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.

Strange in a strange land- and strangers they abound a lot
still sometimes struck by the sensation am yisrael chai
Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot.

Even as I walk the streets and smell the cat decay and rot,
in certain light you’re beautiful- I cannot lie, I can’t deny-
and oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.

Jerusalem, you know I tried, you know I gave you my best shot,
and though you’re eating me alive- I won’t die! But oh, I’ll cry
Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot.
But oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.

Leah

2007-11-12T23:30:00.000-08:00

Nod once. Cough twice.
Those were the signs
to make me Jacob’s wife.
Under the canopy,
Rachel coached me from behind,
tug your ear once. Tap your foot twice.

Under the covers that night,
I subdued my delight
into Rachel’s soft, delicate sighs.
In the morning, awoke to
Jacob’s anguished moan of surprise.
Rachel, Rachel, he cried.

He married her that night.
Rachel, radiant under the canopy-
no opaque veil of white this time.

After the wedding, I slept in the guest bed
while Jacob slept with his new wife.

I could hear him from the other room,
whispering, I love you.
I swooned
and cried myself to sleep.

The next day,
we worked out a deal,
Rachel and I.
We split the time.
First half of the month,
Jacob was mine.
Second half, he’d sleep in her bed.

The nights that they were together,
I died.
Cried.
My eyes took on a permanent shine
from the tears,
and although I tried
all the antidotes in the book-
cucumbers, cream, chamomile tea-
nothing worked.

What else could I do?
I gave birth.
One, two, three.
I’m a baby making machine.
Maybe now my husband
will love me.

Not yet.
Four.

Now we’re at war.
Rachel’s maid Bilhah gave birth
to two sons.

No matter.
I've got seven, eight.
Ain’t life great?

A daughter came next.
Dinah.
She looked like her father.

He adored the children,
and I raised them well.
I taught them to read, to count, to spell,
and when Jacob reviewed
with them at night,
they excelled. He smiled at me.
Warmly. Softly. Platonically.

It was time for a change.
I took up exercise.
Lost weight. Went on a shopping spree.
Stopped crying at night.
My swollen eyes healed.
The redness reduced,
I looked fabulous.

Jacob didn’t notice.
What could be worse?

Rachel gave birth.
A son.
The way her eyes shone,
she looked like an angel.
Joseph, Joseph, she cooed.
Jacob’s favorite.

I decided it was time to move,
time to leave home.
Rachel agreed.
She didn’t have a disagreeable
bone in her body.
Jacob told our father,
impressed upon him our need
to go.
Despite Dad’s protests, his requests
to stay, we packed our bags and left.

Dad chased after us.
Someone has stolen my statues,
he claimed.
Ridiculous, preposterous, Jacob said.
Searchmy whole camp- you'll not
find a thing.
What’s more, I declare that whoever
has robbed you
should die an early death!

Of course, nothing was found.
What would any of us do
with father’s statues?

We continued on our way,
one master,
four wives,
eleven sons,
one girl,
servants too many to count,
and sheep, goats, ewes,
not to mention our jewels.
We were pretty well-off.
How could I complain?

Second half of the month.
Rachel became pregnant.

And when she lay on the dirt
on the road to Bethlehem,
screaming her head off,
tears streaming from her
angelic, deep-set eyes,
pushing the child out,
she died.

I went through her things.
Found a silver ring
with an inscription inside,
To Rachel, my darling, beloved wife,
Jacob.

Another surprise: under the saddle
of her horse, I found Dad’s statues.
What do you know?
Perfect Rachel stole, and Jacob killed his darling, beloved wife.

I didn’t tell.

We buried her in a plot,
in a cave where travelers could stop
and pray.
Jacob stood by her grave,
newborn child in hand-
Benjamin- mother’s bane.
And as I stood next to my husband
mourning his dead wife,
I stared at the newly dug hole in the ground
and wished it was mine.

nesting rhyme poem assignment

2007-11-05T03:11:00.000-08:00

please don't think I'd ever write something like this if it was not for an assignment. although i do like the rhythm. its the content in which i don't know what the hell i'm talking about.

gradually I disappear
as sky darkens, stars appear
you, trying to hold on, whisper softly in my ear

stay, stay, we can go anywhere.
and your words tiptoe tempting through my hair
and my prickly skin remembers in the heartless starlit air

I am despair
don’t say I’m not, spare
me your hollow whispers that hang heartless in the air

you, you unaware
of everything I am, of all the masks I wear
let me fade, let me fade into your cold, cruel night air

quite a scare?
didn’t think I could. and now you care
and now your touch is empty, and I as empty as air.

so you see, I disappear
you’ve only ever seen things as you like them to appear
so now you see, I am no more, you’ve nothing left to whisper in my ear

Winter

2007-10-29T23:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve tired of this place. The days are short,
the nights are cold, I’m cold
all night and daytime too.

It didn’t used to be this way. Months ago
the skies were warm with
promise and the sun beat stronger than
it ever did in New York, beat down on me to match
the rate of my own heart.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know
when things turned cold. I know
that the sun is the heart of Jerusalem;
in winter I exist on defibrillation.

Jerusalemites don’t know how to deal
with winter. They close the roads for two inches of snow.
I don’t know how to deal with this cold
light that burns instead of warms,
this "they" and "I" that have lodged themselves
in my throat.

Winter turns the buildings
rat gray, the color of New York
snow. I miss the summer sun that cast
the stone to gold.

I miss the thought that Jerusalem is home.

Canarsie 1984-1996

2007-09-20T01:27:00.000-07:00

I drove through my
childhood yesterday

-what a dump-

passed the old redwood shul that was
set on fire
behind the black wire gate I saw
my shadow playing with its eight year old friends
running back and forth
while the grownups prayed-
tag, you’re it!
and down the block was
unknown because I couldn’t walk
alone (now I know- Ralph Avenue
is not for kids)

before the smoke
there was Kosher City and
Jerusalem Pizza and Noam’s
Judaica- and we did tashlich
by the sewers-they smelled
but it was only once a year

(when we moved out to Jersey
Staten Island stuffed our noses everyday)

Canarsie stopped when we left
I think it may not even exist now
except that I drove through
yesterday-like seeing
a childhood friend
aged and shriveled-
Canarsie
the name rolls off my lips,
ends in a hiss,
like redwoods crackling
and fizzling in the smoke.

My Jerusalem

2007-09-05T22:14:00.000-07:00

City of Music, City of Poetry. Lucky me, I can hear the rhythms and rhyme schemes of the streets: the hip-hop, hip-hop of little girls jumping rope- Anna Banana reinvented in Hebrew- the vibrations of clotheslines, plucked by windfingers like guitar strings- heartstrings- the huff and puff of buses as they twist and turn and squeeze through all-too-narrow-city-streets, the Halleluyah chorus that erupts every time a kid gets up and gives his seat to someone with a beard, white hair or injury.

The marketplace cacophony: fish breathing their last breaths before their heads are chopped off on the block, waiting to be served up for Shabbat, the twisting tango of shopkeepers and shoppers haggling over specks of dirt, the soprano beep-beep-beep of metal detectors protecting the unsuspecting, but always suspecting, people.

The foreign tunes of foreign tongues: Hebrew’s suntanned brazenness, Russian’s babushkaed proletariat ethic, French’s bereted elegance, Amharic’s dreadlocked click-clack-clack, Yiddish’s yellow-starred oifn pripitchiks, English’s bare-headed chit-chat-chat, Arabic’s kafiyahed snarl.

The dark drumbeat of impending doom cracks through nerves like fireworks. Explosions thunder in the sky, rainstorming fragments of life over heads of little children, getting caught and tangled in their hair.

The bravado of teenagers ringing through the air: "Let's go to Ben-Yehuda tonight- it will be the bomb!"
The cadences: volunteers picking up the mess, the human flesh strewn across the streets.

The choking sobs, the choking smoke of prayers caught in people’s throats, the Kotel packed and God’s ears open. In the nearby distance, the mosque belts out its call- a dirge- and mothers, fathers, sons and daughters cry on the cold stones.

The forward march called Life Goes On: preparations for Shabbat. Hope wafting through the air on whiffs of challah, cholent, potato kugel, running through the tap water and flavoring the chicken soup, sticking to the soles of shoes as fathers and sons walk to shul.

I can hear their footsteps in the streets, a steady, ever-present beat, melding with the poetry that David hummed when he walked up and down the soft hills of Jerusalem, the battle hymns and psalms that the land was built upon, a conglomerate of tunes and melodies, coexisting in Jerusalem’s grand, bittersweet symphony.

THE SHUK

2007-09-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

I. Never Pay Asking Price
So I’m making guacamole, because I can,
which really means because I bought an avocado
in the shuk for two and a half shekels. But I can’t break
this bargain fruit open until
assured it won’t go brown.
I need a lemon.
So I head out to the shuk, a woman
on a mission. The first fruit stand I see,
nada. This particular shmoe
doesn’t sell lemons. Moving on,
jackpot. I take
my time pretending I know
how to pick a good lemon. Finally place one in the
translucent plastic bag that comes also
in yellow, pink or blue, and wave my arm
under the guy’s nose. He weighs it, grunts,
fifteen shekels.
I feel myself asphyxiating on the citrus air around me
and the flies are closing in and I think I may need to sit down-
until I grab control of myself- I’m nobody’s sucker!- and seize
the opportunity to practice
my Hebrew with a key phrase my friend taught me
for just such situations.
In my most indignant tone I spit, Ma, ani frayarit?
and storm away, lemonless.

Turns out, my friend tells me later,
there’s been a lemon shortage the whole year.

II. Drink Lots of Water
I’m walking through the shuk when I’m hit
with this craving for diet coke. (I have a diet-coke-
drinking problem.) The first store I see is
a liquor store, so I pop in for a six-shekel
fix. (Liquor stores here
follow the mentality that alcoholic
content or not, drinks are drinks.)
Forgetting of course, that this was the store
I had been to last week to buy wine
for a Shabbat meal. The clerk was slimy, like
the dead fish juice spilled all over the shuk floor.
Motek, he said, kamah yafah at. Yesh lach chaver?
Sorry, I don’t speak Hebrew.
It’s true, my Hebrew isn’t perfect, but I understood him
perfectly. Now, I see the same slick head of gel, his eyes
fall on me and he cries, Hallo, hallo, motek!
About-face.

That’s one way to kill an addiction.

III. Money is Worthless Here
On the way home from work, I find myself gripped
by a desire to be healthy, so I stop by a random
fruit/vegetable stand and pick out two sweet
potatoes, two apples, two cucumbers and an onion.
I’m only one person, but I need to eat too.
Take my goods to the register,
seven shekels. Beautiful.
Take a fifty out of my Anne Klein wallet,
hand it over.
Ma zeh? the clerk asks.
Money. What does he think it is?
Small money you don’t have?
No. If I had it, I’d give it to him.
Ach, get out, go, go, no big money here!

I’ve never actually been thrown out of a store
for trying to pay.