September 2020
Author's Note: These poems arose from my first trip to Israel a decade ago. My partner,
new at the time, was born in Jerusalem and began his career in Israel. In this era of staying home,
I miss the adventure of being in a country for the first time.
Panic
It is not the drive
from Jerusalem to the Dead Sea
slicing through the Occupied Territory
or the stone-throwing violence
at the Wailing Wall when we visit
on the eve of Yom Kippur
that submerges me in gasping
sweaty fear; it is being trapped
in a bathroom stall
in Caesarea, no space on bottom
to crawl under, no space on top
to crawl over, the lock
refusing release, I scream
get me out of here, get me out of here,
get me out.
Blind
We dine at the “blind restaurant”
in Jaffa with Ariana and Gal.
The waiters are blind and so are we—
if only for an hour or two.
We’re led to our table
in a black-out curtained room,
hand on shoulder—
the way the Blind Boys
of Alabama take the stage.
I manage to eat, drink wine
and though I hate to say it—
unseen food does not taste sweeter.
It’s all Hebrew between the bites
and without my sight I only guess
the tenor and the tone of conversation.
I hold N’s hand. It’s twice
the size of mine and smooth,
but I can read it like a map
and find my way home.
Yom Kippur, Tel Aviv
At 4:45 all traffic stops
and children take the roads:
skateboards, tricycles, new two wheelers.
Dogs roam off-leash, old people stroll.
The half-moon rises
and in the distance a lonely siren cries.
At the intersection of Nordau and Dizengoff
a baby crawls across the street.
These poems originally appeared in The Congress of Luminous Bodies, 2013
©2020 Donna Hilbert
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