If someone were
standing on top of a mountain of sand (maybe on a camel, maybe with a cough)
along the Dead Sea at four this morning they might have heard
two voices
one accented thickly enough to leave an aftertaste,
one small forced into lower registers for old reasons echoed in new habits
bouncing along the water like insects, like light
“Talk to me in Hebrew” “Want
to see me walk on water?”
”I have the same handwriting as
my mother” ”Let’s start a religion”
“You can see it in the R’s”
”I was in a war” ”My shoulders
are turning brown”
“Summer is coming” “Your back is smooth”
”I don’t believe in anything” “I got on a plane”
“My fingers are salty” ”There’s
mud in my mouth”
“Your hair is blonder than yesterday”
“I don’t
love you”
If someone had been
standing on top of a mountain of sand (maybe itchy, maybe pregnant)
along the Dead Sea at four this morning they might have seen
two bodies
one white, one brown
floating on the surface, the light coming over the ripples like a thousand slaves carrying morning on their backs
one head on one chest, one palm on one shoulder
“Nothing can
live in this water”
“I’m trying”