Wall
A poem by Stevie Krayer
We hurry through arteries of crimson,
gold and spice, the souq’s brave display,
into narrowing chambers; past cells
within cells, courtyards, closes, angles
where termite-pale families burrow deep
behind barred windows; down alleys
under the bulge of bloated buildings and out
on to a marble parade-ground bleached of life.
My companions wait patiently
for me to find out what it is I feel.
Not what I’m supposed to. The old slabs
glare in heartless sun. There’s no more
than one or two souls, whispering to the Wall
like parted lovers, in a language
I don’t speak. Scraps of paper prayer lodge
in dry-eyed crevices. They’ll never germinate.
To worship here would feel idolatrous.
There isn’t the pretext of a Lady, weeping
plaster tears. This face is blank, unhaloed.
At our backs extends the seasick plaza,
swept bare of homes and mosques
in a surge of claustrophobia
prefiguring other acres bulldozed
for yet another wall, another wailing.
For this crazed Wall mimics the faultline
in my people, where the long hammering
of cruelty finally cracked us
and fear erupted. Many have since
built higher walls, bricked up
their emptied hearts in case of ambush.
They call them shrines. Like yours,
they hold the image of a broken-bodied Jew.
First published in Acumen magazine.
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