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.