Sunday, March 10, 2013

A Memoir of Bewilderment

You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, she said.
But it was the mountain, birthed from fog and thunder
which held me captive, then bent me under.
Right there in front of us,   (we cannot see it until we see it)
  a hard stop on the road, a strange confounding caress.
How did we end up here surrounded by this mess?

I ask her to speak to me in Hebrew,
wanting only to hear words I do not understand.
I love you exactly as I can.

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