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Out of frayed sackcloth—breasts of filthy cataracts,
Like raw potatoes, branched with rooted blue veins.
What shall we trade? Salt? How much do you want?
There’s a dead child’s hat still here.
In…
Superimposed upon my face in the mirror is my mother’s. I am about to comb my hair, but here she is, brushing hers, her thick, wavy, white hair.
We quarrelled about hair.
“D…
Aged woolen women, like old siddurim—moldy, mossy
Bound in coarse canvas;
Pointless bellies dangling after them like empty sacks,
Dried-out breasts, like horseradish roots, swaying back and forth.…
I had learned of Louise’s suicide upon my return to Blida, my hometown. Spring had just filled the streets with the insolent beauty of those impassive young women. Violent yet secretive, as in Spain…
Why, death, do you tarry so?
Why does your chariot come so slow?
Old age has prepared for me
Every illness and complaint.
What good are my hundred years?
If such pain I undergo—
Why, death…
I have set this stone as a weight, not as a memorial, over my wife’s grave, lest (God forbid!) she rise from the dead and come back home.