for we were strangers in exile
MELANIE KAYE/KANTROWITZ
imagine the desertthe cast of light
imagine the day breaks at sundown
imagine the thirst and the cool water
in the desertimagine you never left
the village never burnedyour voice
was never too loudimagine
you never lugged children and bundles to the sea
for a boatto anywhere
never entered blond neighborhoods
never timed by the sunimagine
youin the desertdark
as your darkest cousineveryone’s hair
is coarse and wildthe oil on your skin
is goodfor something
in the desertimagine you never left
your people have been here for centuries
places are named for them
. . .
so the plane sweeps down into the desert
imagine breaking open to hold
what the desert holds
but you’re a stranger
the language blurslike any unknown tongue
you feel stupidstraining your earfor senseyou eat
cakelots of cakeugaand say
tayeem meodvery tastyand it isbut then
you’re silentyour vocabulary exhausted
and the peoplefamiliarnot
strangersbut still
you have to meet them one by one
slowimperfect
like any human encounter
. . .
I came here looking for thirst
I sit drinking tea on the balcony of the house you were raised in
where evenings your grandparentscousins sipped tea
told stories in Ladinobut you are named in HebrewChaya
meaning lifethe sun washes my skin
you talk of walks through East Jerusalem
of the lost backpack returned intactwith a gift of fresh pitot
these things changed youopened youyou fill my cup again
it’s morning on the Rechov Nisim Bekhar in West Jerusalem
Jewish Jerusalem
I am your guestyou are yourself
not a mirrornot a statistic
this might be my homebut is not
I was born all over the planetthis time in Brooklyn
I came here looking for the seas to partand truth
to rise upwet
and obvious
I sit on the pink-grey stone by the Damascus Gateeating hummous
the sun is lavishdirectyou sit one step updressed in a black robe
a white headdressbeside you a boymy brother, you tell melater
after we catch each other’s eyesafter we smile once
and againuntil you pat the stone by youmotion for me
to come sityour name is Ma’ha
you want the English word for my sunglasses
for the digital watch you wear with your black robe
you say, you like hummous?
I nodsmilespeak neither English yesnor Hebrew ken
though I’m sure you know kenI don’t know yes in Arabic
I think you know I’m a Jew
your watch shows 12:01
it’s noon by the Damascus Gate in East Jerusalem
Arab JerusalemI am your guestyou are yourself
not a victimnot a symbol
. . .
Yerushalayim
if my heart forget thee
if I walk the winding streets
in the clear gold light
if the past is carved on pink-grey stone
tabletsthe walls of the city
housespolished in blood
if the future is billowing
formless
shall we count the windows in Kiryat Arba
and call them facts
or discount the nights in shelters at the Northern edge—
are these not facts?
if one is thirsty and will not drink
will not seek water
except the Litani
tempting the desert’s need
for milk and honeygreen
. . .
I came here seeking a thread
and see a shadowor is it a woman
or two womenshifting back and forth on the same spot
looking alikethough at first you
wouldn’t see itthe hairskinlanguage close
almost comprehensibleshalomsalaam
and which is the stranger
whose flesh was torn
who grabs whose sleeve
who eats dark bread and potatoes
whose teeth stain dark from the tea
whose tongue was formed abruptly in kitchens
in whispersquickquick
and which century do we mean
when does one woman become the other
when does the rooted onewho belongstransform
into the one forced out
when does the one forced outand outand out
returnto force out
and when does the other return
and how
. . .
Yerushalayim shel zahav
the golden city
I came here looking for homeor exile
not both
I came here looking for women
but there are men in front
the Arabswithout their kaffiyehs would pass for Jews
the Jewswithout their kipot would pass for Arabs
the Hasidim who walk to prayer when the day dips
into shabat
the Muslims washing their feet to enter the Mosque
radiant over the city
and the Mosque was nearly blown up
like the Jewish buslike the Arab bus
enter the marketthey check my pack for bombs
this is a fact
. . .
here are some facts:
peace is not an absence
victims are not ennobled
home is the storm’s eye
unless the strangertoois welcome
we were strangers in exile
a people is bound in memory
I thirstfor my people
. . .
borukh ato adenoy elohenu
let my people
in to history
let me not wait outside
let me not freeze in the posture of victim
let me break open to hold
the khet-raysh sound
the goat-honey smell
the light on the stones of Jerusalem
where I lived on hummousand sweet dark tea
let my people heal
omeyn