A poem about R Eliezer

siman: memory ox food wife temple


my memory is a painted tent
my ignorance the corpse beneath it.

how long have I hated you
for never teaching me
waking and eating and working, collapsing
I pulled the plough for miles in circles
until I broke the ox's leg and ran.

was the dirt I swallowed in Jerusalem
black like lepers' gums,
or like the night of immersion?
I thought, at least
I am in the holy city,
at least I can
plug myself up.
on the second day of eating earth I vomited.
the other students complained
and I won the pity of my teacher.
at his burial
I choked down tears, furious
that he never did adopt me.

my wife does not mind
my fear of nakedness.
she says:
when God broke you,
he made you
the right shape for me.

when the temple is rebuilt
I will bring the old childhood ox.
on that day his leg will be whole
his horns crimson
his heavy head golden
his hooves annointed
his chest swollen.
I will lay my hand on his head
so that his throat will be like mine.

pour me out
cut me into my pieces
eviscerate my ignorance
wash it in water
turn it to smoke

I wrap fresh dates for the priests
I clap my hands to my ears
when my brothers curse Jerusalem
I press coins in the hand of the convert
and tell him to buy two doves.
It will be soon, now, very soon.