ISRAEL

massr@israsrv.net.il

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.

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

She came back to the apartment, stood in the dark stairwell, fumbled for the key in the pail where they put umbrellas and notes to one another. Turning the lock, she pushed the door with her right knee, pulled the suitcase behind her. A blast of cold, damp air reminded her that she hadn’t been home for days, that Kobi hadn’t returned.

I’ve got time, she said, and before she decided –
she asked, time for what
then she lay out on the bed,
whimpering so cold.

She pulled the suitcase close to the edge of the bed, managed to click open the latch without sitting up, pulled out a blouse, a wool vest and net stockings, draped one after the other over her chest and legs.

I should get up, should
get bread,
should turn on the heater,
should turn on the lights,
should bake a cake.

Her hand kept reaching into the gaping case, pulling out garments she layered over herself, one by one.

Should
she said a final time and closed her eyes.

Drenched with memories of what hadn’t happened with Shmuel and would never happen with Kobi, she fell asleep.

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