TO THE WEAK, THE FEARFUL AND FAINT-HEARTED

Jonah goes running through the alleys. The ship is already at anchor, the quayside stirring to life.
You who gather there, hands outstretched, hearts exposed – leave him alone. Don’t mock him.
 
For even if you hold out a begging-bowl, he’ll scorn the wretched tremor in your voice.
Turn away. He is weak, he’s shaking. Let him hurl himself towards Tarshish.
 
Your gaping wounds revolt him. If you ask, he will say you’ve no strength for a cure.
He will say he hears the voice of mercy, and yet will not submit to it.
 
Oh you, the fearful and faint-hearted. A light drumming tells you the pulse of the moment. But what of him
The man who is running through alleys, who tramples the past and gulps the future, spitting out minutes one by one?
 
What will he do, whose hands are bound, as claws of iron scrape at his lungs?
He knows not the faint or feeble heart. He looks around. No way out in his eyes.
 
Don’t try telling him of welcome bonfires, of friendship with its painful gift of truth –
He will learn your wisdom when he returns.
 
Then he’ll step off the ship, an abyss in his gaze, his watch slipping into the waters.
How he’ll envy you – the weak, the fearful and faint-hearted – how he’ll whisper, along with you:
 
Jaffa is softness, her alleys are gold, her middens are well-springs bubbling forth.
How he will weep, stroking his soiled heart. So – turn away. Please.

TO THE WEAK, THE FEARFUL AND FAINT-HEARTED