I'll climb cliffs
and descend to the innermost pit,
and sew the edge of desert to desert,
and split the sea,
and every gorge,
and sail
in mountainous ascent,
until the word "forever" makes sense to me...
- Shmu'el HaNagid, 'On Fleeing His City'
When They Go
Come winter you long for snow, in summer for rain, cricket song and wind that no longer touches your face. Summer is the time you are most thirsty for conversation.
Your mood turns darksome when I'm kept away. Your precious books become scattered about like leaves, bedclothes tangled on the floor, the bed not slept in. What day is it, you ask, impatient, when I return. Has it been so long, you say, Whole seasons could come and go without my knowing, thank god for you, my Elle.
The door unlocked, I illuminate the mess with a skein of electricity because you have broken the only light. For a bit of change, you explain, and I reach for you, stroke the corner of your wry mouth. There is no need for you to say it. The shards of glass are on the floor, partly reduced to sand, your dried blood staining the wire cage around the cracked bulb, how old it's hard to tell; no one has come to fix it.
Air, food, light. They're luxuries, Elle, says daddy, He doesn't appreciate them anyway.
You tell me that you can smell it when the cherry blossoms blow. Where, I ask, thinking of air filters and heavy fans, and you reply, Does it make any difference, down here?
On a wedge of this smuggled orange you swear to me, my bony shoulder encircled in your cool, sinewy arms, my head against your chest: I will not stay in this place forever, my dear, you will not be left behind.
THE END
28 January 2008