The poems in this post are part of a special section, curated by Ori Z Soltes and Robert Bettmann, The Jewish Experience.
#bringthemhome
Israel, January 2024
How soothing to hear high flirtatious notes
in the pre-dawn
instead of rumbling jets
and the boom of artillery.
I wake early
again
to an endless October morning.
It is going to rain.
It is raining.
It may not rain.
The blackbird takes flight
marking the known distance
between us,
so close to the dark, underground terror
he could lead you home
in pure song.
Survival
On volunteering at the Beer Sheva Midbarium
When the war starts, I am bereft:
both sons in uniform
and an unbearable depression.
The animals need to eat.
With a large number of staff unable
to work, I get a call: please help us.
Leaving the safety of my home,
I drive the empty streets to the zoo.
Roni is cleaving
a frozen white rabbit
for the cheetah
when I enter the kitchen.
Emily is with me.
She’s from my hometown.
We slice rats, fillet fish,
and hack chickens.
We laugh
with an unexpected intensity.
Her son is in the army, too.
We muddle through the “recipe” book,
trying to understand how each bird
likes their food and the amount by weight
they should receive.
Pelicans swallow large fish whole in one gulp.
Cormorants prefer small sardines.
The diminutive red falcons need their chicks chopped.
It is a relief to cut vegetables and fruit
for the ducks and chickens,
unlikely residents of the zoo
who have arrived in poor condition
from the destroyed kibbutzim,
along with rabbits and goats.
We hear the thump thump of artillery
less than 30 miles down the road,
the incessant noise of planes
taking off from the nearby base.
We take a walk along the lonely paths
on our way back to the car,
the blue sky empty of projectiles.
The giraffes walk towards us
as if they are deprived of company,
their dark almond eyes
and feathery lashes inquisitive.
I am rooted to this moment
of dust and sun and clicking hooves
where the zoo could be enough
if I could let the heat hold
me womb-like in this bright
zenith of survival.
Notes to an Unborn Grandchild
“In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles.”
~David Ben Gurion
Tomorrow I will tell you my story
of arriving in this ancient Land
where dust storms rage for days
and winter rains bring fertility.
I will wake the dawn with my song,
collect ripe lemons that have fallen on our porch
and sweep the dust from our stone floors.
The wind will die down,
laundry will stay on the line.
Almond trees will don white dresses
and we will picnic on a blanket of wild anemones.
Rivers will flow with abandon,
slips of fluttering prayers will be answered,
your great-grandmother will remember everything, and
I will know the world with you in it.
An award-winning poet and author of The Lost Kitchen: Reflections and Recipes from an Alzheimer’s Caregiver (Black Opal Books, 2019), Miriam is a freelance writer passionate about telling stories. Miriam’s writing has been published in several journals, including Guideposts Magazine and Daily Devotionals, Red Wolf Journal, Poet Lore, The Prose Poem Project, Ilanot Review, The Barefoot Review, and Poetica Magazine. Miriam loves to read, cook, and take long walks when she’s not writing.
Featured image in this post: Processing salmon fish meat, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, creative commons via wikimedia commons.
