Children. Children.

And should they come*,
beating them like a father,
big and awesome,
spoiling them like small puppies,
and saying what wonder
I took upon myself and also,
I must be good.

Learning to pass ten fingers
down their back,
to fasten mouth to temples.
And letting them betray me.
I shall have no big plans for them:
lift the spoon correctly
walk straight wave goodbye.

I shall stand guard,
because the sperm and blood will be there
because I long to go home
because there is no purely clear word
because hey,
I will still want it all.

They will sprout
black cliffs,
under great restraint
installing crows along the thicket –
a field band.

Pressing and crashing the thorns,
burning them, letting no one
look inside them, being anointed human.

I shall lay seaweed in their hair,
wax against fire beneath their tongues
and in their pockets water.
I shall watch them tread
in short socks like everyone,
falling into the hands of evening wolves,
wailing, imitating their voices.
And I will shut behind me
the glass door.

In the blackening day hope
is a glitter of nothing,
you need only believe in the first sound:

ddd*and if they come I shall swallow them

Anat Zecharia – translated by Irit Sela


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