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.

Yocheved revised

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.