Lamentation
"Whosoever toucheth the dead body of any man that is dead, and purifieth not himself, defileth the tabernacle of the Lord; and that soul shall be cut off from Israel." Numbers 19:13.
You got me into this mess so you get me out. Our heaven-decreed exile, half-broken. Escape to paradise but the years catch you. Five red heifers from Texas quarantined in Haifa, but no heaven-sent ash can purify hands so dirty. Incendiary bombs devour oxygen down to the bone. The ocean floor of the Dead Sea rumbles. Children float where their fathers cannot fish. Avert our eyes as shit floats down the Shikma. Your last great mystic sings the repressed returns from inside a Grecian urn. Talking in the tongue reserved for scripture each day. Abominations as the norm. Human waste. Animals in cages. Total siege. David would weep, if he hadn’t hardened under Goliath. I hate my weakness so much; I wish I had not been so small. Heads roll toward the Jordan with longing and hit a wall. There can be no poets in Gaza. Bombs fly even in our dreams. Mediterranean azure fades out within smoke, the promise of morning buried under rubble. The sweetest dates sour on the tongue when there is nothing else to eat. All of this ocean light but not a drop to drink. Already dressed wounds reignite when the dressing is removed and it is re-exposed to oxygen, the breath of life. An inversion of right. Do unto others as they do unto you is a New Testament principle. The sanctuary of St Porphyrius burns with the congregation inside, like exposed skin. No ash can cleanse hands so cow red, like the end of days. You got me into this mess so you get me out! Judith screams; her own head in the sack. You were safe in the sunshine, but you missed the rain. White phosphorus turns skin to ribbons, like children on horses happily wounded the sand at Beit Lahia beach when this was the land of oranges.
