ISRAEL

massr@israsrv.net.il 

The riot has begun 

It started days ago when desert winds left the garden brittle.   
I watch leaves turn in like shells, twist 
shadows over my yard as the heat presses on.  
I wonder if people make their own weather.  

In the winery, we lean toward the wine merchant 
who says as if a secret:  
this is wine for spring, it's that light.  
I watch my glass fill with sun, feel more bound 
to the earth, my throat turns slippery. 
People need to incite their spirit, I think 

looking at my friend, who reaches for a year-old Merlot  
as the liquid slips past my tongue.  
I watch him close eyes, test.   
Somehow I know more about how the world is classified 
by watching this man.  

I want to trust the process, go slowly enough 
to follow it.
Don't want to destroy the mystery 
by explaining too much.  

I wait for evening, for the street light to bring 
the shadows in, make my coffee cup or reading chair 
into something so large it stops being 
what it was before.  I move past the lines of my life 
when that happens.

Ritual 

They say that Balzac kept a half-rotten apple in his drawer
bit into it before he started to write.  
He teased himself with the bitter, shrinking flesh.  
The stench sharpened, narrowed,  filled the drawer 
with the buzz of dying.  Finally, no taste of apple
only the musty rot, a fermenting gasp, 
leaving a row of smudges, a reminder 
of the form it once was.      

The ceremony was repeated until it worked, until 
the ritual took hold,  till Balzac 
reached into the flames, escaped 
his demons,  finally stiffened with purpose.  
Then the muse chanted.

hard not to think of death

she pulls my breast toward her 
along the cold shelf 
she stops at a certain spot pushing it into shape
like a patty for a barbecue party
she presses hums, breathes and presses again
push towards me	 she says	 with your back	 she adds
and i visibly thrust my ribs at her 
she brings down a pane of glass 
that meets the thresh-hold my right breast has become
your head 	she says 	pull it sharply to the left
and read the posters 	she says
and i look at sun-lovers warned about danger to  
tanned limbs
then i work through the next one 
layers of the breast like a plan of the megiddo site
is my breast like that 	i want to ask 	and she says
your head    pull it sharply to the left   and i leave the sectioned breast and the sun lovers 
her arm wipes itself over my nipple
she's not a lover wanting response
all she wants to know year after year
is why the right breast hanging from my chest
is bigger than the left
she says 	and hums again  	i know  	i nod 		and she says
pull your head    	to the left    i add 		while she hums
i have has loosened my grip and she starts to say 
pull your    i know   	i know    	i say    	i know      
while she hums
i know one day she'll find the secret of this breast
one day she'll tell me its 	a cyst   	a tumor           a cancer   
something that will get the left one too

when she releases the right breast from the shelf i take it gently
and return it to its place on my chest
stroke it from the top all the way to the nipple to straighten
out the sharp edges the pane of glass has ploughed into my quilt 
of a breast
i go back to my clothes letting my hips down on the cracked stool 
like hundreds of woman daily do
i bring my breasts back into the bra and shirt they came in
six months   	she says   
you've got till winter   and i nod thanks 	and
go out into the heat of june 
my right breast leading the way
six months   	you've got till winter    
my mantra    	
six months		you've got till winter
what'll i do till winter     
what if i only have till then
my left breast is ambivalent to the throbbing of the right
that still remembers being spread by the cold machine
hard not to think of death 
as i look for my car

Vinegar and wet paper bag

They spill white vinegar over the fries at the beach, 
it falls through the spaces, settles at the bottom.  The salt 
stays on top like the fluff of 

first snow.  I had just turned eight.  I got a nickel for 
chips every Saturday, then I'd sit on a log, facing the 
sea,  vinegar all over my arm, sometimes way 

past the elbow.  I liked how it kept the smell of chips 
and brown bag with me as long as I wanted, even when 
I went to the edge of the water

looking for shells.  Didn't care if they were cracked just 
had to be real different. Flat, dark or almost completely 
closed. I liked the way the vinegar smell 

got all over my shells, even inside, stayed there till I took 
them home and put them on the shelf near my bed.  I'd smell 
vinegar and wet paper bag for most of the week.  

February:  Kitsilano Beach 

The sand isn't dusty yet, shells shine with winter, barnacles
shift light.  The sea stays deep and thick.  Doesn't reach the sky
like in summer.  I pulled at my collar, stared to hear the waves
pound the beach - knead like bread, till I feel the land
under each smack.  I watched a man pulled by three dogs.
They clustered, the man pulled out a pipe, turned from the wind.  I watched
the dogs hold together, then suddenly spring toward the sea, swarm
at the edge.

The sea is hard and flat, then softens, splurges into tufts of sensation.
The man stood at the water's edge, impatient to tug them back
pulled at his pipe.
The dogs scratch at the logs, warning me, I hear.
I gathered my jacket round me.

Once in February,  years ago, I saw leafless chestnut trees
cover the hillside near Pietra Santa, drank Grappa.  The clear stuff
burned the chill, settled into my chest.  Now I stiffen, hold on
so nothing will collapse, care about dreams that crack
then fade.

Lavender and rosemary crawl up the mountain slope where I live.
The sun slides down my shoulder this morning;  I am overdressed
for winds that sweep in from the desert.  Even though
its barely April,  summer's on the road.  Tips of plants
show brittle that will, in a month or so, work down
to the root.   
The sun is not going to pass from here.
The riot has begun.  

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