Samuel 19: In Writing

Sit in secret. Close the door.

Brood with fist clenched

ready to spear each fear

only for it to slip into the shadows.

Outside,  the night stalks.

Check the sleeping shapes of your children
So silent, they could be simulacra
bodies yielding beneath your touch.
Study their stirs like tea leaves.

The wind shrieks unintelligible

propheciesm as the floor flees

before your feet, and you teeter

at the edge of the sudden pit.

Samuel 18: In Writing

 And when you are stripped

of cloak and sword

armor gone

skin exposed to the gathering storm--

and the storm always gathers

always upwelling swirls of

did he eat? who did he hurt?

does he cry? Why this rains?

Your soul feeding his soul

as your life fed his life

invistble ubilical pulsing between you

worry, love, exhaustion,knowlge

that some day it will be severed

and what will be left of you?

Samuel 14: In Writing

 -You can't take that! / But I want to / Stop! Stop kicking him! Can't you see he's crying ?! / smiling into my eyes /  But it's fun/ / in my contacts, the psychiatrist, the school psychologist, the guidance counselor, the clinic social worker, the social service social worker //   when you sleep / in the passage / between battle and battle // past the day's sharp teeth / I shoot messages / wait for answers / any answer / parenting by committee / because the one thing I know / is I don't know / what the hell I should be doing.

Samuel 13: In Writing

Indetermindable

moments between the vibrating

phone, the blaring alert,

the siren that might--

might not--sound

I want to go,

my daughter whines--

I want to go down. I gulp down

the still-dewed air, breathe 

in jasmine like I'm drowning. 

It's too far, she scrambles towards the steps.

I'm scared.

Hunker underground. Between concrete slabs. 

My dove, in the crevice of stone

the shelter of the step--

She says, I always dream 

we keep sleeping

And then the missile hits.

I dream I am buried alive

in the endless expanse 

before the All Clear.

Samuel 12: In Writing

 I am not atrustworthy

witness. When accused

I crumble. Anger

burns my tongue, sour in my throat. 

Days of harvest. Thistles browned.

Lupine dried. Wild oats

empty themselves to open beaks.

Air alert with leashed thunder--

I have not yet put winter away.

The night-planes whine like wasps

We sleep beneath haunted skies. 

When do i stop to pray

excep silently?

Samuel 11: In Writing

 "History rhymes"

my friend posts

it doesn't repeat

exactly

it does merge, mix, echo

Same lined walls,

same gym mattress in the corner

same wail. Same pile of shoes by the door. 

When it rained, the perichor

slippery stones

and lights blinking through the clouds

marked which year it was

which round

but now it is the same sullen heat

Fallen figs smashed into the floor.

Swim through the same menace,

watch the same dusty sky. 

But now my baby can run halfway

and my daughter can cross the street.

There are two new rabbits in the school petting corner

a new row of graves in the military cemetery

and I am more tired, and sad and heavy

body the clock tracking history

Judges 19: In Writing

 For five days, the rain fell.

Inched across the ceiling,

bubbled the walls. 

Drops bloomed beneath the window ledge

trailed vines towards the floor.

When I laid my daughter down to sleep

the pillow was soaked

deep red, dyeing my hand.

A treacherous puddle glinted below.

I took them out of the room,

laid a mattress on the floor

"we're camping out," I said

Tap, tap tap went the rain on the door

cold fingers reached down the ceiling and walls. 

Nothing can be fixed 

till the rain stops. 

The way out

is blocked by a pool full

 of dirt,  debris, and torn bags.

I wipe the floors. 

Line the windows with towels.

Overhead. the plane shrieks 

like a phantom diving for the kill.

Listen to the thunder, my daughter says. 

When there is lightning, 

does God tear a line through the sky?

Judges 18: In Writing

 Small Cruelties

After Danusha Laméris

I've been thinking about the way, when you walk

past a forgotten flower pot, it seems so easy

to snatch it. Or how overhanging oranges

tempt us, a leftover, perhaps, from Eden. How easily

“I want,” becomes “mine”.

And sometimes, when we hold

a marker, someone else will grab it.

Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. But

we want that extra big piece

of chocolate cake, with the perfect

swirl of cream. Want the purple marker,

and that specific “Gummy bear” song. 

We have so little control, always. So far

from the enclosed garden, with a heavy hanging

fig tree and a gate that can slam shut. Only

these two hands. Not so large. Not so powerful.

These hands, and the weapons we pick

up along the way. Sticks. Words.

What if these are our only nodes of exchange,

when we pass each other on our solitary prowls, 

erecting fleeting temples to our gnawing needs. Saying, “Mine”

“Give or I’ll take it.” Saying, “Let’s see you stop me. Please.”

Judges 17: In Writing

Can I have a chocolate coin? he asks, But you took one without permission, I say. What if I'm good, he says, what if I'm good the whole day?

Do you love me Imma,  he asks, do you?

Of course I do, I say, tired,

Because some kids in my gan day their imma hates them, he says.

Do you love me Imma, do you? he asks

Of course I love you, I say

Because I like to hear you say it, he says. Can I have a chocolate coin?

Chapter 16: In Writing

 Browned leaves litter the pavement

like clawed hands 

or scattered flames.

 

I love you, my toddler tells me,

digging into my cheeks.

Do you love me?

 

I bury

my nose in his wispy hair.

He grabs my wrist,

 

moves it up and down

his cheek. When I draw away

he pinches me.

 

How do we love each other,

let us count the ways

and how much,

 

and how little

and who more.

How long will you lie to me?

 

A reddened vine encircles

the lemon tree, a leaf cluster

rising to ring the finger

 

when I have you

heart sliced open

prostate on my knees

 

what do we do

with the openings,

what lies in wait inside?

 

Chapter 15: In Writing

Wails. She is curled on the floor.
She pushed me first! he says,
upright in his righteousness.

and now the baby is crying
Hurt me! Hurt me! 
pointing forlornly. 

He’s half your size! I say. 

Look at him!
But he stole my truck, he retorts. 

 
Gangly, he towers above the kindergarten, 
Look how strong I am, 

he boasts, 

Yes, I say, yes you are, 

don't say, 

and even when you were two

they called you a bully
as youngest–but largest–
you shoved for your turn.
 
By now she has picked herself up,

picks up the small metal dump truck
and hurls it at him

it smacks his face, 

scratching the corner of his eye.

When he screams,

she rushes at him, kicking. 
A millee,  all wailing together
as my hands close over my ears  

Chapter 10: In Writing

My baby spins

burnished gold 

etched in time

by the dying light.

Please don't uproot the rooted

don't forget the hope

the children sing, oblivious

as mothers weep into their hair.

Return me, and I will return

each word overripe with import.

The planes'  overhead whine

mingles with the oud's dirge.

when will we manage

full confession?

In this golden hour

I give chocolate.

In this golden hour,

I give juice

I give all the sweet

that is too sweet

unable to hold back.

Let us fall into the hands of God

for his mercies are great

the music beats

as the wide-wombed

evening embraces all of us. 

 

Judges 9: In Writing

 My old garden was guarded

by the silver-scaled armor

of two olive trees, that lobbed

globed black grenades all over the floor

which my baby stuffed in his mouth

black grease bursting on my fingers

as I forced them out. 

No flowers grew by those gnarled roots

poisoned by the trees' bitter solitude. 

The man who planted that garden

gathered the olives carefully in jars

mixing some with garlic

some with the bright red peppers 

he grew in pickle jars on the sill. 

The first year I diligently gathered

them in a pillowcase.

washed them in the rain,

and watched white mold bloom.  

In my new garden,

I dreamt of figs, open-palmed

and generous. The fruit, 

purpling and swelling

till they burst with milk,

and the sweet scent of green.

But my neighbor warns their roots dig deep

overturn the floor.

They need to be planted far away, he says.

No where near a home. 

So now I look at vines,

how they curl their fingers around every support

gripping for dear life

how they climb and climb

covering every scar

in riotous green and clusters

redeeming the ruin. 

Judges 7: In Writing

Night

fear wells from a bottomless spring

and anxiety swarms like 

cicadas covering the sky

chirps deafening.

Three watches split the night. 

In the first, the donkey brays.

In the second, I listen with the dogs

to the planes swooping overhead

the distant sirens that threaten

to grow close and loud.

Patter through the house.

Check the windows.

Turn off the lights.

Listen to the kids breathe.

Watch their chest rise and twitch.

Listen to their dreams 

that whisper

of vanishing.

Check the doors.

Even as you know how easily

this house can all be flipped

shaken like a laundry basket

contents crumbled and dirty on the floor.

Judges 6: In Writing

The sun beats merciless

on all heads.

Buses splash

all passersby

when the gutters flood.

Sometimes I wish for a circle of shade

within the blinding sun.

Sometimes I wish for a finger of sun

to  massage my neck.

To squeeze  my shirt

and find cool water in the desert heat,

or wrap myself in a coat that stays dry

in all a world of wet.

Do not head the wayfarers' prayers,

the high priest declares.

But some days, some moments

I so wish You would.

All day long, humming menace.

Distant drilling, or is it a drone?

The walls shudder.

I wait for night. Try

to breathe. Suck on chocolate

I bought just for me. 

 

Till my daughter wakes crying

she's scared. Why

are you scared? I ask.

As though the earth's

maw isn't full of fangs.

Dont be angry, she says.

Just scared,  she says. 

Stay next to me,

I rub her back.

Whisper I'm here. 

Like I can create that cacoon. 

That one safe cave

in the murmuring dark. 

Judges 5: In Writing

 I, to God, I will sing

Seek "I"

pasty-faced in the mirror

while hands drum the door

Imma, I need you, I really

need you. 

Nur, nur, the baby pinches my shin

demanding milk.

From the corner of my eye

the hawk-swoop of my son's hand

and my daughter is wailing.

Motherhood is resisting

the blandishment

of rest. Constant

vigilance.   

Pull your mouth into a smile

Focus. Split 

your ears three ways.

Why did you hit your sister?

my voice a harsh caw. 

The casual kicks

swats and biting. Stop

I say. I am counting

They are wildwaters

bursting all dams

I the melting mountain.

His legs kick 

like a donkey's, just missing

my stomach,  

 I wonder how i ever

contained him

within me. 

Peer through the window

as the last lights fades

enumerate and engrave the finds of the day:

a smile, a cloud, a bird, glints on water

try to awaken tomorrow

to eke out a voice

and tell it sing. 

Judges: Chapter 5

Awaken from the dephths

the mother seeking 

the ferocious core

[For full chapter, click here

The chapter reiterates and crystallizes the themes raised in the previous chapter. Reiterated is the spatial dimension, the leitwords "falling" "to go" (l'kh). Intensified is the focus on gender, and on the role and leadership of women.

The intertext of Deborah's Song is Moses' Song of the Sea, continuing the Book of Judges dialogue with the Book of Exodus. Both are replete with water imagery and the downfall of horses and chariots (Then the horses’ hoofs pounded / As headlong galloped the steeds ) . 

Az yashir, "Then sang" open both these iconic songs. In Exodus, the singer is the male Moses, while Mirian "the prophetess" (Exodus 15:21) only takes up the chant at the end with the band of dancing women, declaring "Sing to God." Here, Deborah takes up Miriam's imperative form, but it is "the woman prophetess" who is the primary singer, with the male Barak as secondary. Deborah is the speaking heart, Barak her physical arms: "Awake, awake, O Deborah! Awake, awake, speak  song! / Arise, O Barak; Take your captives, O son of Abinoam!").

The  poem switches to first person, as the prophetess calls on herself to speak: "I (anochi), to God, I (anochi) will sing," The song is a claiming of women's speech: "Awake Deborah...speak (Dabri) song"  as Deborah puns on her name to claim the authoritative speech (dibur) that is usually the preview of men. And the song is indeed structured around  the power of femininity, subverting female archetypes. History itself is redefined in feminine terms (in the days of Yael). It opens with the rise of Deborah, "a mother in Israel" (5:7), and closes with Sisera's mother, sitting and awaiting the return of her son. Between the bookends of these maternal figures is "Most blessed of women Yael, wife of Heber the Kenite, most blessed of all women in tents" (5:24). These three women are the structuring principle of the song, reaviling the hidden female matrix of warfare. Each woman drives the war in her own way: Deborah by ordering Barak to battle; Yael by seducing Sisera to supposed safety in order to assassinate him; and Sisera's mother, who raised her son to revel in the sexualized violence of war, where he can claim "a womb or two for every manhead (5:30). The male "taking of captives" is the muscle power playing out these deep drives. 

 

Western society has traditionally divided women by different traits: nurturance vs. sexuality, the mother and the whore. In this song, these female paradigms are intermixed, so no woman is one or the other. Deborah the mother is Deborah the speaker, calling, judging, "exploring the heart."  Sisera's mother, sits inside sniveling and worried, but is revealed as ferocious and predatory, reveling in rape. Yael exits the traditional female space of the tent to beckon Sisera in, in language that is sexually suggestive: "Between her legs" Sisera rises, falls, and collapses, rises and falls and collapses again, to be utterly destroyed.  Yet the seductress is also maternal, offering nurturing  "milk" as she soothes him to sleep. Has the rapist between her legs been birthed or undone? 

The maternal emerges as a dangerous, ferocious, and celebrated  power.]

Judges 4: In Writing

 If you go with me, I will go

And if you will not go with me, I won't go

but stand in place

mule-faced, kicking the floor

I said, Get dressed!

You say: You're not helping me.

 

I say, We'll be late.

you hold out your arms, so you do it.

Legs outstretched like a mannequin

knees locked unyielding 

marionette with invisible strings

that twitch away from me. 

No glory in this path

mouth twisted to rictus

coaxing, cajoling, screaming--

nothing helps.

All you want is to fall

burrow deep into the floor

I want to go back into your belly, you say.

I want to be inside.

But if they kill you, you add

I'll die too. 

Judges 3: In writing

Daily weigh-in
needle fluctuating round and round
the set point. No way
back to before
when your body was wholly
your own.

Look down 
at mountains and troughs--
fleshy landscape of broken promises
to yourself. Your goal is
Today you will

eat only when hungry.
cut out
cake. Sticky seduction 
of sugar. Long nights.  
The pull of sleep.

Lie on a bed of flesh
spreading like ripples.

All those months carrying

bear down on your bladder

the weakened sinews 

weaving torso together

leave a groove down the center

separating before and after

Life made flesh--

weight of time and inertia.

It is hard, hard to rise

hard to pull yourself up by your arms

only to swallow

dagger and hilt

and feel the fat close on top of it. 

Judges 2: In Writing

Every day the sun rises

every day it sets

every day the waking, dressing

cook, feed

battle of the clothes: too short, too long,

I want sleeves

no sleeves

a jacket

a hat

3 changes, 4

dull pounding behind my eyes

the rhythm of the day,

Hold me, I want you to hold me.

I can't walk!

throwing youself on the sidewalk

legs drumming asphalt.

Sometimes I am patient.

Often I am not.

Breaking point, I grab you,

or walk away, say: I'm gone.

Sometimes I hold you. 

Sometimes croon

It's hard. Sometimes

I feel the pulse

panic at your neck.

Always, in the end

I walk out the door

to your wails.

Say: too much noise.

Say: talk to me! 

While you scream

Listen to me!

I want you to listen!

Mouth a gaping O

of despair.