At A Bus Stop in the North

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

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

<span>%d</span> bloggers like this: