The deserts of Israel rage across my skin
sing the Song of Solomon across their winds
pray for me for my prayers go unmade
my soul is borne of tarnished things.
The deserts of Israel rage across my skin
sing the Song of Solomon across their winds
pray for me for my prayers go unmade
my soul is borne of tarnished things.
Her lips were tied with
tradition
she couldn’t loosen the cords
before the mirror
she tried to undo
that delicate web
of dreams and fears
family and commandments—
the ghosts of memory
snapping, weaving—
mute.