At a Bus Stop in the North

He is green in a sea
of green, olive green,
just returned from sheets
that smell of sunshine
and his mother’s hands,
returned from the crackle
of potato pancakes, the cold,
sweet burst of jelly
with the first bite of sufganyia.
His rifle oiled at his side, his pack
heavy on his back, he stands
where the rocky hills
hold him tight, away
from the slick lines
and neon electric cones
of Haifa. Nearby in a field
black birds tunnel up
into a blue and milky sky.
Something has died
over there; he doesn’t know
what—he hopes it was natural;
he hopes it was quick.

— Rachel Heimowitz, from What the Light Reveals

T. S. Poetry

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