Two Summer Poems

Illustration by Sophie Levy

On the bus in the north of Israel

On the bus in the north of Israel, you and I are given

a small green bag of plums.

There is no need to guess which are sweet, you tell me.

The bugs have already discovered which are sweetest.

Your hand then slips into the bag.

You choose the plum with the most bug bites.

We proceed to enjoy what is small and warm,

What is spotted and sweet

What is ripe and spoiled;

What is and was, what was and is no longer. 

Eclipsed Prayer

I once witnessed a solar eclipse in Jerusalem.

I rotated around the blue building 

while you washed your feet at its side.

The golden dome stood in front of me, 

and the white moon waned behind.

For a moment, the gold shine, moon,

and I briefly aligned.

You washed to enter the mosque.

To enter silence; a brief reprieve, 

and so close to heaven.

“Tell me what you see,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”

Last week you had also washed your feet, 

but to leave a place less quiet. 

In Tel Aviv, 

at the end of the beach,

kneeling under one of the shower spouts 

arranged in a line of three were

you and two Moroccan Jews

submitted to the sun, 

your heads down,

your sun-singed feet clean before God.

Around and around:

A flush of blood,

A sun so bright.

An eclipse of prayer,

A block of light.

The sphere where

the dome and moon and I aligned; 

the sphere with 

the sand and sea and spouts in line.

Tell me, have we reached eternity?

Tell me, have we eclipsed eternity?

I’ll wait here.