There are things falling from the sky, some are petals and some are knives, words that cut and divide. Some are tears from eyes like fountains, uncorked from Jeremiah’s cousins. Some are missile shards and shrapnel, freshly mailed from Persia, hastening Armageddon.
So then on the plain of Meiggdio we will wait and wail, remembering good king Josiah. Armed with tears and promises, until the better king appears and his enemies vanquishes.
Eyes swelling with tears since the missiles and drones claimed the skies, cascading in a dance between borderlands. Returning to work is what we do, we are strong people. So resilient they are calcified by self protection and singular lenses for survival, biblical prophesies pronounced with every strike. Jerusalem, I weep for you and for myself.
In wartime you can slip from the tears that recite Jeremiah’s words, “my eyes are a fountain.” They never stop falling, they are the remnant of shrapnel, yearning for gravity to release their tense pools. In the spring you can slip on the Jerusalem stones, slick with rain, and in the dry summer you slip as the sweat rolls down your back, your legs, pooling and glossing the pavement.
Still, in Jerusalem I am loved, not because my name passed his lips. Or because he declares my breasts will always satisfy him, budlike and tender. I am loved because I exist on purpose, and that is irrevocable. Isn’t the very existence of this city the same? She’s a chosen and contested jewel.
Below the library window the uncultivated orange blossoms, the fragrance enveloping as you walk under the boughs. Petals strewn like garbage across the street. The orange itself is more bitter than a lemon, more wrinkly than an etrog, a fruit of festival, an emblem of earlier, equally violent times.
We are exorted to pray for the peace of Jerusalem, and as residents we are expected to pick up the psalm books left at the bus stop and declare “peace within your walls, security within your borders.” Blessed are those within you, Oh Zion, and blessed is the one who takes refuge on your holy mountain.
In the library of desire, catalogs of historic, modern, contemporary; sex. For Odysseus, irrational seduction until he is out of his xxxxx (controlled by the mind or the belly?) a flame or a furnace? If you shut your ears can you reclaim your self? There is no fire; what is left to return to? Ardent longing, justification for transgressing morality, Faithful to desire alone, not to any bond. Has the satisfaction of a human soul changed over time? What is it that will quench it, by God! O Captain, is it the hunt or the kill? Is it the whale upon your mantle, taunting you in salt-skin from the indomitable sea? Power and pride, esteem and influence, imposing order, conquering the other. To be remembered after you are gone. For freedom while you breathe? Heard in Gaza, the waning desire to live. The cries of children for their children, what life will that generation know? To carry within the land as it was (and always will be), memory fervent and indestructible. Urges; compulsion, loosing the battle. Steady now, what were you made for? Purposed with breath. What is this stirring, to know and be known, for pleasure and for safety, for release and control.