Praise the fallen world
and its dreamy terrors.
Praise the false certainty
of unflickering leaders
and their certain masses.
No one knows better.
My cravings crave solitude.
My cravings crave space
to grow and spread their wings.
I hear it mostly at the playground.
My daughter has become a jealous god.
I have amassed debt and doubts.
Some days I feel Jerusalem calling:
quiet study, a wooden table, a bottle of wine.
Take me on the table where
the Torah lies open and worn
as a woman’s breasts. Take me over
the mountain where our enemies pray.
Take me to the den of thieves
who crouch around a fire.
I’d grow a beard in Jerusalem
and play hide and seek with Hashem.
I’d make her show her face
for once and for all.
Then I’d spit into it––forgive me,
too many dead children, too many people
running from their homes, crossing borders to survive.
Too many people surviving their own survival.
