I’m torn
between two poets:
one yearns for the scent of bread
and the other longs for soup;
the bomb crater
is a fireless hearth
and the clay bowl
is broken clean in half.
I’m torn
between you and Amichai:
yours the dome
and his the mount;
a cut
is still a wound
and a drop
is still blood.
I’m torn
between you and Darwish:
you’re a star
and he’s a sickle moon;
I hear
the call at daybreak
and I see
the sunset without God.
I’m torn
between Mahmoud and Yehuda:
his bowed quiet
and his silence at the wall;
I want to wail
but I’m thirsty
and I ache to be held tight
but I’m full of ashes.
