Lonnie Monka – Three Poems

with an extended index-finger tracing circles in the air

you said: “the end must be the beginning it’s all a big loop”

lounging around in suburban New Jersey

nested in sweaters & thick wooden chairs, we were bound

by the many-colored trees of autumn

whose curious beauty unlocks an ability to spin sorrow

just as when we embrace each other’s memories

imagining each memory weaves a memory of the imagining

you displayed the beginning as the end by tracing circles in the air  

allowing me now to recall how together we once cried

on a plane to your home country while you

younger than I am now—with me

less than a year old—flying to your mother’s funeral

though no one had let you imagine how                                                        

your mother burnt herself in an oven to return to her beginning

which—according to what you said—must be her end

but beyond the possibility of being stuck in these cycles

what drives us to speak & interweave our webs of pain?

just as you waited till the night before I moved to Israel

to announce to me before our family & community

what your father did tell you the night before you left:

“I’m not worried—your children will return”

the vaulted Mamluk corridors

         beside the men’s section

            of the Western Wall

air-conditioned & filled

         with black & white suit wearing worshippers

            for Yom Kippur

& amidst my obsessive thoughts

         looping modular synthesizers & women

            Jerusalem Syndrome emerged

so I began to remove my clothing

         moving towards the deepest corner

            continuing to undress in that cave

as half the men ran off

         & half the men approached me

            everyone yelling

& I wished they would rip me to shreds

         marking my death as an example

            of their murderous intentions

but they just held me down

         as one ripped off my genitals

            before they lifted me up

the crowd carried me to a medic

         & I was transported to a hospital                        

as an anonymous case of sterility

I want to be buried

         secretly

            in the Yehuda Amichai neighborhood

while a ceremony in the Valley of the Cross

         spreading the ash of burnt chicken feathers

            fools my loved ones

I want to construct

         a Magic Gardens

            in an empty lot in Talpiot

whose mazes will consist of mosaiced glass broken

         while being imported to Maḥaneh Yehuda

            or the Old City

I want to prove

         that the Palestinians

            are mostly of Israelite descent

as much as the Torah

         is not written by G-d

            any less than any other book

I want to expose the blindness

         of positive people

            to the depths of the words that they use

as pits of temporary despair

         waiting for them to fall

            into a purifying darkness

I want to show

         that the value of being ridiculous

            corresponds infamously with the conquering of fears

& instead of trying to record

         momentous meaning

            sporadically emerging imperfections

I want to prove

         that the aesthetic value of participation

            fluctuates with local rent prices

in an inverse proportion

         that hardens the hearts of artists

            who refuse to move

I want to demonstrate

         that I don’t need the approval

            of mothers brothers or any others

instead of being tempted

         so strongly

            towards my usual silence