Jewish Poem



            August 2012    
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The Hand of the Beholder

By Zev Davis

Some choice that, to hold a staff—
thrown into this world onto the Nile, a bundle
unbundled, once onto marble halls. Not
quite you, or what you came to know
crawling on the floor, moving inside


the corners, almost there. Still
recalling your mother's milk where it touched
your lips recycling the instincts that
were always there. Stumbling like a soldier
with a captive woman in your arms. Returning
as if you belonged there. Nevertheless
wandering about the sand, telling yourself


who you are, fulfilling
what you could never know, like
a time capsule bursting
with rage. You run for your life
lifting boulders . . . revealing hidden waters
for thirsty sheep. Alone, until


a distant bush at a distant mountain
reached out to your leprous hand that healed, and
you returned because you were told
to get back. To throw the staff
slipping and sliding, an empowered serpent,
devouring the magic of those marble walls
where you trod. Back and forth


within your mind. Déjà vu
and back again. You cast spells . . .
you build a nation, you split a sea, rocks flowed
with cool liquid. Holding what holds


there, you were told to hold back, yet
your memory told you what your memory forgot,
you lost—you sojourned, watching
over, looking upon them, crossing the Jordan River,
the staff holding forth for other journeys.

~~~~~~~

from the June 2012 Edition of the Jewish Magazine

Material and Opinions in all Jewish Magazine articles are the sole responsibility of the author; the Jewish Magazine accepts no liability for material used.

   


     


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