Poetry

Height after height of strange mountain scenes,

new words, new ideas in our conversation.

I just left them there holding their breath,
summer dripping from their honeyed
muzzles. 

My mother died on Shavuot, at the end of
the Counting of the Omer.
Her oldest brother died in 1916; he fell in the war.

In the night shop’s Gothic theater,
where unstrung carcasses of violins
and cellos are laid out on tables