15 April 2009



In my city
I'm further away from myself
and my words
which dried up in the clouds
over the Nullabor.

I was twenty when I wasted
my procession in the desert.
Three months of cypress trees and solitude
waiting for that lick of rain
to send me home.

Watching the war waged in the streets
bus bombs and shoot outs among neighbours
made front page news in Paris,
the Times and in Haaretz.

I carry the sand from Jericho with me
a small scratch, hidden from lovers
and the mother who bore me
new and whole into this city.

Solovki (excerpt)

On that northern island

watermelons grew in winter

before the fathers were thrown down stairs

discarded fruit, but

hollow-ribbed and hungry

and the victors gouged the eyes of my saints

with bayonets.

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