Here, O Israel? and other poems by Leah Shelleda

Here, O Israel?

.

Each day we came    each with our stories

each story a hundred lifetimes long

who can blame us   for not bursting into song

when we arrived in this barrenness

this was not what we were promised

we left countries hardly anyone visits

but if you did     if you did visit

you would find forests and brooks

meandering

down

mountainsides

or a surround of sea    gold-leafed birches

dying into elegance

.

Here, O Israel?

Is this where You meant to bring us

we were surrounded then

we are surrounded now

.

In our village a green-faced fiddler did not leave footsteps on the roof

the bride did not float above the trees    not in our village

in our village there were  beehives   the sound of goat bells

the ancient well       my ancestors tug me back

as hard as my hand gripped the rope

that pulled up the pail

so I am not really present in this desert

my feet do not want to dance on pavement

my throat is too parched to sing

I know where I left wasn’t Eden

the men did not pass their time

naming the animals   the women

grew apples and figs

.

I am a kernel enclosed in a smooth shell

a hard nut to crack   and heat alone won’t do it

what if you came all this way

what if you were driven out

what if this Israel

was the only direction your people prayed toward

what if you had fallen for vineyards

olive groves    timbered slopes

paths worn through wild flowers

what if you had never wanted to leave

or you wanted to but did not realize

what you were leaving

.

or you thought you could simply abandon the old ghosts

it was expected that the dead would appear

in dreams     but when they appeared at the well

or rode your shovel up from the earth

flight appeared like a row of crows

on a clothesline

.

In Tel Aviv you can hear the sea

in Jerusalem you can touch the Wall

in Benyamina there is the scent

of orange blossoms

so what

An old woman keeps a jar

of rock hard honey on her window sill

another a dessicated sprig of lavender

a third still remembers the scent of wild roses

she sews up her memories

with a shred of silk thread

and a pierced thorn

Here in the desert

we learn to water the crops

drop by drop

and it is not bitterness we carry

.

but we know

what we couldn’t bring

cannot be born

not here

not here O Israel

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