ISRAEL

massr@israsrv.net.il 

copyright: 01/01/00

Hands on a gun

The soldier has slipped onto my shoulder again
his breath skips with the road. His head
falls to my chest, I straighten, tightening the part
of my back that usually goes sore on rides long as this.
His knee hits mine, then flips away
as the bus rolls, returns to mine
stays there. I feel his muscles.

Hills are drying in the June sun. Goats and two camels
pass on my side and dark children sell eggplants
from plastic crates. The soldier's head falls
almost into my arms, I life his face. His hands
stay on the gun, a scar goes from the thumb
up the arm. Swollen and red.

The bus makes a sharp turn. The low area between the hills
is filled with black tents; wide women herd sheep
and children to grass left from winter. The soldier
has slipped again, I life his face, saliva runs on my hand
then I touch his hair. The bus stops. 

Three soldiers push duffel bags in. The last eats cherries,
spits out the stones. An old lady with parsley
in her lap shouts at him, the next stone rolls
under her skirt. The bus revs up and
my soldier shakes himself like a dog
out of water. Shalom, he says.

Shalom, I say and feel the sweat each time I raised
his head. Where are we? he asks and leans over to see
more tents and goats. Almost there? and answers
long way yet.

I want to look straight at him but study his hands
on the gun, want to know if he's afraid. There's
so much more I want to say, but you can't
talk like that to a man you hardly know.

Holding the earth 

A sharp wind brings Golan voices down
into the valley where I can hear them. Sounds
like a rockslide, coarse scrub of grain and 
the spiral of fissures. A frantic undertow.
The voices want no change, want
to keep their place in that massive reach of land.

In the early years, groups of children, my daughters too
were trucked up there to clear rocks and boulders
smooth the surface into a welcoming place.
Pears and apples are picked now through fall and winter
brought south to local markets. 
The trees are woods, throw shadows
dark as grief.
Crops and cattle are rooted there.
Soldiers have fallen keeping that place safe.

Golan voices spike questions
hurl them at anyone who'll listen. 
People there seem to be lying low
like leaves coming down,
animals at bay
waiting for the chase, stirring trouble
holding the earth.

© All Copyright, 01/01/2000, Rochelle Mass.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.