Where God Was Born


The hawk-eyed sun blinked shut
come sunset yesterday
and my world went dark like . . .

               death dressed in brass jackets and
               dark eyes behind baskets and
               lead clouds that smell like wet matches

. . . I stood alone.

I stood alone on a graveled knoll
come nightfall yesterday
and on the air, I tasted a taste like . . .

               blood baked in sand and
               ovens hot underhand and
               an iron pot left to rust on a riverbed

. . . I was burning.

I was burning like a cold war
come midnight yesterday
and my soul was razed like . . .

               phosphor falling like flames and
               bushes charred by His rain and
               the fabled walls of Jericho

. . . I was broken.

I was broken down to shards
come daybreak yesterday
and my mind was jig-sawed like . . .

               hectares of salt flats and
               green lines drawn up on maps and
               shrapnel from a child's ticking vest

. . . I was crying.

I was crying for ruin
come sunrise yesterday
and my tears were bitter like . . .

               winds off the Dead Sea and
               the poems of a refugee and
               a war that lasts all of six days

. . . I was dying.

I was dying in the Negev
come midday yesterday
and my life slipped by like . . .

               prayers to the moon and
               girls bled too soon and
               water poured out on a tank

. . . it was over.

It was over like an hourglass
come twilight yesterday
and I let my flag fall
because rice is to weddings as dust is to death
and there will always be stars above all . . .

Yes, the hawk-eyed sun blinked shut
come sunset yesterday
and my world went dark like
                                     I stood alone
                                     like
                                     I was burning
                                     like
                                     I was broken
                                     like
                                     I was crying
                                     like
                                     I was dying
                                     like
                                     it was over,
                                     over until tomorrow.

Like it was over until tomorrow . . .

Well, I'll just wait here until then
when it all will start again.

I'll wait here among the greens and limes,
these soldiers with their howitzer spines.

I'll wait here . . .  
and dream of milk up above
of suns that are white as the brightest white dove.

I'll wait here . . .
and listen for Gabriel's horn
in this barbed-wire land where Jehovah was born.

I'll wait here . . .
until tomorrow.