Hands at the side, raised to the forehead
clenched in a fist
gripping oneself and another
after a minute, after the howl
a murmur
a wave
fingers running through the hair
one body emerging
and holding itself
the flower blooms
and fades
children run through the streets
threading between bodies sat and standing
playing, mourning
smiling through tears
a teeming silence
laced through by the wrestling winds
from the great sea
from the wide desert
snarling, laughing at the heart of the third gate
Jerusalem
City of Weaving
City of Breath
vying for which will carry us
to the four corners
and back again
Those souls who ascended,
stripped by the gallows
are guided back
to the heart of the mountain
to sing with David
there is no guest-right
there is no need
they have brought others
they are home
Of what is their song,
my beloved?
Consider this –
you shall not pass your children
between the flames,
an offering to the void
and though you are filled with joy
ecstatic, fecund, torn apart
do not dance before the calf
the altar shall not be hewn by iron,
no, no, it is forbidden
return, knit
but do not carve
Tomorrow, tomorrow
a festival before G-D
