|Leigh Stein||The 2River View, 9.2 (Winter 2005)|
|Three Ghazals for Departure
Miriam danced in Exodus while the Red Sea drowned the horses.
A poet is a child that tells every secret told. I know her.
On Yom Kippur, it rains enough to warrant a black umbrella.
Who is naive to be the one to ask for hands wrapped in heat.
I want a cauldron of palm tree hearts and trembling psalms.
After the party, they came home to find their piano missing.
When it rains, little Moses rescues the worms from the road.
Before the drummer, I was engaged to a man who cried all the time.
You can only disappear once and then they will find you out.
To end what it is, he uncovers the shoebox with all of her letters.
What I know about absence is that it is jilted and insistent—
You can fold a map in half and make the distance shorter.
In the hotel room no one ever comes to make the bed for them;
All the women at temple wear black stockings, but why is it cold,
The compass points south, the clock is stopped at twelve.
|Authors • Poems • PDF • 2River|