Things That Are Frayed
Yellow hostage ribbons, now dirty and dull.
Vocal cords from protesters at Hostage Square,
muffling the hoarseness of fruit vendors at Shuk HaCarmel
Hems of uniforms, soiled with fear. Arms, legs.
Our flesh.
Tzitzit made by volunteers, well-meaning, but unable
to follow the separation of strands, knotting, and wrapping,
the precision needed for trimming ends. How can amateurs
be responsible for matters of the soul?
Our knots.
Israeli flags suspended
from windows. Are they in honor of
or in memory of?
The bangs of a toddler who refuses
a haircut from the neighborhood barber.
Only Abba can cut her hair right.
Our hearts.
~
Bloodmobile
In the heart of Jerusalem, a bloodmobile
awaits donations for soldiers.
I enjoy bisli and pouched orange juice
and pray I will save some green,
fatigued boys, that some will become old
men who sip muddy coffee, chain-smoke,
and speak with their hands.
My blood has coursed its way
through the veins of premature,
bird-like arms. I’ve had my platelets spun,
then sifted from a tethered tube
to a guy with leukemia who’s an asshole
but doesn’t deserve to die.
In the heart of Jerusalem, there is a blood technician
named Liyat. I’m grateful for the sabra sass.
It takes three jabs to get my blood, and I grow verklempt
over the pain in my heart. She thinks it’s because I’m a hard
stick and rolls her eyes, singsongs amerikayit mefuneket
in nine syllables. She doesn’t know I’m fluent in Hebrew
and nastiness.
I don’t engage, store my witty retorts for a next time.
In this now, how can I incite the people of a country
bathed in red? How can I not give blood
for those whose hearts are hemorrhaging.
~
Return From Reserve Duty
Sergeant returns as Abba
A bullet proof vest, replaced by a baby carrier
A canteen, traded for a Mickey sippy cup
A helmet becomes a kippah
Gunfire is the matkot ball at the beach
Trigger blisters bruise the ripened peach
The imprints of fingers on everything—ghosts tips
________
Haya Pomrenze’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Rattle, Hanging Loose, Hawaii Pacific Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Minyan magazine. She is the author of Hook (Rock Press), a National Jewish Book Award nominee, and How It’s Done (Finishing Line Press). She considers herself the founder of the Jewhitsu poetry form. A creative arts therapist, Haya works on an acute care psychiatric unit teaching collaborative poetry as a healing modality for survivors of trauma.