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Like in Ramallah
by Elaine Rosenberg Miller
In the dark, the guiltless, moonless night
They made their way along the walls of the modest house, along the stuccoed walls
Soundless, sightless
On they crept, swiftly, stopping to listen for restlessness, recognition, awareness, life
Soon to be dawn, soon to be day, they hurried on
Soon, blood, glistening blood, molten blood, then darkening blood, stiffening blood, streaking blood
As in Ramallah
In Ramallah, the young man raised his hands, palms up, his fingers splayed
On his hands, his scarlet hands, death
In Ramallah, in Ramallah, one man's blood painted another man's upraised hands
Blood!
Blood coursing through the body
To the heart, to the brain
Bringing warmth
The child fell back on his bed
A single thin mattress
He fell
And his blood pulsed onto the mattress
They slit the neck of the baby, the dewy folds offered no resistance
They killed the parents.
Young parents
And when they were done, they fled into the darkness, softly, softly, the ancient stones recoiling in horror under their feet
And when they returned to their children, their parents, their neighbors, the blood of the family was on their hands
Garments
Faces
Souls
Like in Ramallah
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from the April 2011 Passover Edition of the Jewish Magazine
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