Winter 2012
חורף תשע''ג
Rain in Katamon
.The sky was pink when I decided to make
banana bread
,I was lonely, of course
so I listened to the sweet voices of
young men with guitars
and drizzled honey into the batter.
Singing about love
.Heart-quakes
On the street raindrops plop down on
.children's noses and purple flowers
Young women carrying sheaves of brown
hair
.are laughing with their babies
.Hearts patter
.And their husbands try to catch their
kippas before they fly away
I was watching the boys glance at bare
knees with shy smiles
coming and going through traffic
that seemed to force
time to move forward to other places
.Hearts race
.And I checked facebook to make sure
that I was still loved and interesting
The sky turned greyish blue, but the
rain disappeared
.as did the stars and half of my banana
bread
Pumping
Iron in Gan Saker
So
there we were
pumping
iron together in the park
there
was the young Litvisher couple
kanoodling
in that non-contact, bayshani way
there
was that cute University couple
he
did sit ups
and
she drew him
there
was a ploni here and a ploni there
and
what seemed to be a lonesome red-payos'd Bobov
There,
weaving in and out, actually
trying
not to be be noticed
,this
time
was
me
looking
like a genuinely confused nose-ringed married modern-orthodoxed
girl
in pants
I
was reminiscing on a time
when
I may have been entitled enough
.to
call myself an athlete
More
reps and less weight = endurance
less
reps with more weight were for jumpers and sprinters
!gives
an extra burst to the hammies
So
there we were
pumping
and puffing and bayshaniim
periodically
stretching
on
the ground
on
the side of a tree
.or
quietly on a safsal
We
were all watching each other
while
trying not to watch each other
.or
seem to look like we were
.But
we were
Peaks
galore. and
Quite
aware of the holy phenomenon
this
city procures
Quite
aware that we all may envision
.something
different
