masssrg@kinneret.kinneret.co.il 

How illusions are made

On days when I feel very married

I don’t wear my wedding band.

I slip it over a hook alongside the keys for the back door

and the storage shed.

When that knowledge shrinks, I only remember part

of my husband’s face, where he lowers his eyes

into disappointment. I do remember our passion as lovers

then how I had to get used to him when we were married.

There were times in those years when we were strangers

now we’re saying more in less words.

Heat rests on the road near our house.

I can see how illusions are made as I drive

over the wet circles

watch them disappear into asphalt tongue.

That’s how it feels with our marriage.

It seems real clear and then I continue on to find that

what was there has gone

maybe wasn’t there at all.

Today our home is full of light, intense.

I can’t refuse the morning that spills in.

Simple things can be gathered here

The water was as clear as an empty road today,

I could see along the surface, down into the cave

at the end. The clouds resolved themselves, moved

into one another, and I looked for signs of myself as

I went down the ladder. A daymoon just over the

palms was pale, full, subtle as the lake reached round

my ankle, teased, rolled away the dust. Spread

round me, rolled time to another place. The waters

fill and part, clap as I furrowed from end to end,

shuffle, then bulge, lie flat. Cunning in volume,

brood as I looked for myself, think of the collision

on the road from Jenin, three women on the ground,

white scarves bloodied. I remember that if you

get killed in India at a zebra crossing you get

a free funeral - the scenes belong together

as I work my way up stream as though

pressing against a window. Spread my weight, think

of a friend whose life depended on her dog, and pile

on another length. Light splashes as I go down again

and think of a new friend who sends me photos

of his mother before, then after a stroke and

I worry for his worry, plow like farmers do

into tough ground. I surface again, and come back

to where I began.

I appear, disappear, taking it in, could be blood -

could be a live burial - could be lungfuls of air -

then down again. Sliding in, I am never done

as I wave to the sky, then plunge again. Vanish,

emerge, split the lake. Water runs down my legs

like syrup as I climb the ladder. I have danced

again. The lake pumps me up with dreams, licks

me clean. I return to these safe waters - make

my borders, stack memories, discard time

that wasn’t good. I remember how I almost drowned

when I was six and now can funnel back and forth

where language never goes. A blade I am, cutting

passage to where I have to be. Simple things

can be gathered here, promises kept.

Bread can be shared in such a place.

There are echoes here. I listen.

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