ISRAEL

assr@israsrv.net.il  

Wiping away the signs

My father bought a cottage, but not for summering,  
for renting it out to others who came to rest among the cedars
beside the lake. At the beginning of the season my parents 
would bring me and my sisters, work for a week 
to repair the ravages of winter:  replace broken glass,  return shingles 
to the roof, fix the stairboards.  Get the place ready for summer fun
then take us home again making sure,  from a distance,  
that each week's tenants passed on the key to the next.  

At the end of August, we'd go again.  This time my folks 
repaired the ravages of summer,  which rivaled winter. 
They'd send us day after day to the beach; I played and scolded 
my sisters till mother came with lunch;  she'd sit with father 
for a while, her feet in the water then go back to continue wrapping
up the cottage.  Cold chicken and potato salad tasted different 
at the lake, and store-bought cookies had coconut ground so fine 
it was hardly there.  My cousin Sholem came one time, covered 
the floor with mechano parts, brought the metal edges into a bridge 
that spanned from the sofa leg to the big table.  My littlest sister 
could walk by then, my middle sister was busy finding her place 
amongst the tools, waiting for lunch
which was usually late.  

My husband tells me how he summered with his family at 
Winnipeg Beach.  They rented a cottage for the month, no repairs
no seasonal damage, no sloppy tenants - just fun.  He went 
to the roller rink in the evenings, a chance to be with girls, he said.  
Cultus Lake also had a rink, but I couldn't skate.  I pressed up against 
the fence, watched boys take girls into the swinging crowd.  
Time wrapped around the rink.  I'd find a couple that seemed 
like they could skate forever;  I'd watch till I was dizzy
my fingers in the spaces of the fence.  

One girl came every night.  As soon as she fastened her skates a boy 
would lean towards her.  She was born pretty.  My feet throbbed, 
hands itched - the pale part of me stared.  Sometimes I stayed till the rink closed
my parents on the porch drinking tea when I came back,  the music 
twisting in me.  I wanted to be a skater, a pretty girl, propped up 
by a boy who would hold me the way a young tree is staked, 
I would be beautiful, I believed, because he'd reached for me.  
The impossible tangled up in me then.

When we returned at the end of August, other born-pretty girls
moved through the heat.  The colors had changed, greens flattened,
the heat slapped my face.  Hard to believe that summer 
didn't burn there all year long.   
I'd close my eyes, forget the other girls, forget my parents 
wiping away the signs of summer spoils.  
I'd plan how I would be next summer but those plans 
got treaded like a car moving along dry snow packs it down.  
Keeps it firmly there.  

There was a certain radiant flower near the rink.  
I'd look for it in the city, wanted to be reminded.  
Today I know that smell is old, but want to hold those dreams
shuffle them, sort them out.   
I know what is possible now:  seems like I'm filling time 
for the first time,  drinking in air, holding it till its dry.  
As clear as instructions for Campbell's soup 
I know that anything can happen.

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.   

East 

The house faced east.  The architect intended fresh light,
the first stream of morning.  He placed long, wide windows 
in the kitchen wall, was sure facing east would bring her 
the spirit of Jerusalem, David's wisdom.  

For her, east was green and white license plates, 
white-scarved men at road blocks unloading chairs and 
carpets with plump women who squatted, staring at their feet 
till officials ordered them to move on.  

The mozein from Sandalah, just over the hill 
whines first prayers.  Jenin, further east
over the green line, fills the horizon 
with brooding intentions.   

Unlike pinata balls  

When I opened the door this morning, bees flocked in, are now pressed against 
the panes in the kitchen, crawl along the table's edge.  I tell this to my neighbor 
who shouts across the hedge:  bees belong to their keeper.   
Not sure what this means, I think back to when I was ten, when I walked
into a farmer's field, stepped on nests that burst with wasps.  Unlike 
pinata balls that spill out gifts when struck, wasps swarmed, first attacked 
my hands, eyes, lips.  Then pierced my neck.  I didn't move 
- the screams turned howls.  

My parents drank cool juice on the farmer's lawn not knowing I was  
beating off stings gone into my legs and ankles till I couldn't shout
nor move.  
Finally his dog yapped so much the farmer took a stick, came to check 
for trouble.  
I lay on their daughter's bed, lips like balloons.   Could only move my fingers 
a little.  They rubbed me with a baking soda paste that hardened, held me 
till the pain reached the surface, passed.  

That's what I think of today as I watch bees that have been in my house 
since morning, eroding the relief of where I live.  
I walk out into the still grass 
hoping they will follow.  
They have stained the yellow mood summer has brought.

Close enough to smell the rye

I met a man at a party. I'm Irish, he told me, and as he drank he told me that passion is unchristian there. I was close enough to smell the rye watch the words tumble damp, catch his fingers on my breast. As the night pulled on, he looked like an old house, all shadows

and I pressed against a window. He told me that Paravans in India are not allowed to walk on public roads, not allowed to cover their upper bodies, to carry umbrellas - not allowed… was what I mainly heard. But what he really meant was that

Christians would not defile themselves by accidentally stepping into a Paravan's footprint. He touched me, talked about untouchability and suddenly the back of my legs went sweaty and his lips flapped like yam leaves.

The sky was black and thick. Dead insects floated round the base of the candle. Then like traffic freezes on a highway I was sure I had to go.

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