Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.