Tornado Psalms for Gaza

The tornadoes outside write Torah (תוֹרָה) in the sky--

black spirals of phosphorus, a liturgy of wind.

I stumble into the windowless

synagogue,

where two women rise

like unlit menorahs,

their silence louder than the sirens.

One presses a cold coin into my palm:

"For the ferryman (Χαρων)," she mouths.

The other unspools a thread

from her wrist--

red as the line between Rafah and ruin.

The walls hum with the ghosts

of psalms,

but God is busy

watching a boy dig his name

from the rubble

with a spoon.

. . . .

II. The Dream Tribunal

In my sleep, a man in a radiation suit

addresses the UN with a Geiger counter:

"Nuke it all," he says, "salt the earth,

for Palestine still burns

and no one remembers the recipe

for ash or empathy."

The delegates applaud with gloved hands.

A child offers him a pomegranate--

"It's all we have left," she says.

He peels it open: inside,

every seed is a tiny, screaming Kyiv.

. . . .

III. Elegy with Chlorine and Drones

We are running out of metaphors

for grief.

The sea of Gaza tastes of rust and regret,

while in Bucha, the mass graves

have started growing dahlias.

O my love, we are so good at mourning

but so bad at saving.

Even the moon has turned its back,

a white пятёрка* (an "A" for effort?)

stamped on the night's dark report card.

. . . .

IV. Coda: The Frot Manifesto

"Anal is a lie," whispers the dream-man,

now naked but for his biohazard tattoos.

"So is the State. So is the bullet.

Only the press of skin to skin

is real--

like two maps of the same burning country

folded together

to smother the flames."

The silent women nod.

Outside, the tornadoes kneel

to drink from the crater

where the hospital

was.

. . . . . . . .

* Russian car