THE MOTHERS

The melancholy mothers come to me in sleep,
demanding their sons.
I hold my head in my hands,
I turn my back on them.
The one with a Leviathan circling his eyes sits down
to write. The melancholy mothers dissipate
like milk, congealing into statues.
I have no energy to count the dead
as they pass, one by one.

The moon fades, leaving only dust.
Did someone see the horizon,
the luscious tree before the sin?

The melancholy mothers scratch the air,
their fingernails of bereavement breaking,
tearing their clothes,
flowing onto cold marble.

Their boys lie over the wadi,
crumbling soil between their fingers,
beyond the houses,
beyond the candles.

האימהוֹת

האימהוֹת