Late To The Altar

The curves of the Judean hills slope like a starved woman,
bitterly wanted by all whose eyes have gazed upon her.

Stained with blood, and stained with bullets,
my soul is parched in a desert land,
where the only language I speak is English.

My tongue begs for the sweet water of Arabic,
my dry lips beg for the balm of Hebrew.

But my father never taught me Arabic,
my mother never taught me Hebrew.
And as my whole mouth begs, it begs in English.

I stand alone under the ḥuppa of language,
my groom is arriving late to the altar.

As I wait for him,
I hum the words to an old song
that I don’t remember learning.