weak Rachel: be comforted, not comfortless . . .
There was a promise to me from a rainbow, there was
a covenant with me after a flood drowned all my friends,
inundated every field: the ones we had planted with food
and the ones we had left untilled.
Who keeps promises except in business? We were not
permitted to own land in Russia. Who wants to own land
anywhere? I stare dumbfounded at the trees. Montreal
trees, New York trees, Kovno trees. I never wanted to own
one. I laugh at the scholars in real estate . . .
Soldiers in close formation. Paratroops in a white Tel
Aviv street. Who dares disdain an answer to the ovens?
Any answer.
I did not like to see the young men stunted in the Polish ghetto. Their curved backs were not beautiful. Forgive 7s I
me, it gives me no pleasure to see them in uniform. I do
not thrill to the sight of Jewish battalions.
But there is only one choice between ghettos and battalions, between whips and the weariest patriotic arrogance . .
I wanted to keep my body free as when it woke up in
Eden. I kept it strong. There are commandments.
Erase from my flesh the marks of my own whip. Heal
the razor slashes on my arms and throat. Remove the
metal clamps from my fingers. Repair the bones I have
crushed in the door.
Do not let me lie down with spiders. Do not let me
encourage insects against my eyes. Do not let me make
my living nest with worms or apply to my stomach the
comb of iron or bind my genitals with cord.
It is strange that even now prayer is my natural language . . . .
Night, my old night. The same in every city, beside
every lake. It ambushes a thicket of thrushes. It feeds on
the houses and fields. It consumes my journals of poems.
The black, the loss of sun: it will always frighten me.
It will always lead me to experiment. My journal is filled
with combinations. I adjust prayers like the beads of an
abacus . . . .
Thou. Reach into the vineyard of arteries for my heart.
Eat the fruit of ignorance and share with me the mist and
fragrance of dying.
Thou. Your fist in my chest is heavier than any bereavement, heavier than Eden, heavier than the Torah scroll. . . .
79
The language in which I was trained: spoken in despair
of priestliness.
This is not meant for any pulpit, not for men to chant
or tell their children. Not beautiful enough.
But perhaps this can suggest a passion. Perhaps this
passion could be brought to clarify, make more radiant,
the standing Law.
Let judges secretly despair of justice: their verdicts will
be more acute. Let generals secretly despair of triumph;
killing will be defamed. Let priests secretly despair of
faith: their compassion will be true. It is the tension . . . .
My poems and dictionaries were written at night from
my desk or from my bed. Let them cry loudly for life at
your hand. Let me be purified by their creation. Challenge
me with purity.
0 break down these walls with music. Purge from my
flesh the need to sleep. Give me eyes for your darkness.
Give me legs for your mountains. Let me climb to your
face with my argument. If I am unprepared, unclean, lead
me first to deserts full of jackals and wolves where I will
learn what glory or humility the sand can teach, and from
beasts
