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August 2012 |
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The Hand of the Beholder By Zev Davis Some choice that, to hold a staff—thrown into this world onto the Nile, a bundle unbundled, once onto marble halls. Not quite you, or what you came to know crawling on the floor, moving inside the corners, almost there. Still recalling your mother's milk where it touched your lips recycling the instincts that were always there. Stumbling like a soldier with a captive woman in your arms. Returning as if you belonged there. Nevertheless wandering about the sand, telling yourself who you are, fulfilling what you could never know, like a time capsule bursting with rage. You run for your life lifting boulders . . . revealing hidden waters for thirsty sheep. Alone, until a distant bush at a distant mountain reached out to your leprous hand that healed, and you returned because you were told to get back. To throw the staff slipping and sliding, an empowered serpent, devouring the magic of those marble walls where you trod. Back and forth within your mind. Déjà vu and back again. You cast spells . . . you build a nation, you split a sea, rocks flowed with cool liquid. Holding what holds there, you were told to hold back, yet your memory told you what your memory forgot, you lost—you sojourned, watching over, looking upon them, crossing the Jordan River, the staff holding forth for other journeys. from the June 2012 Edition of the Jewish Magazine Material and Opinions in all Jewish Magazine articles are the sole responsibility of the author; the Jewish Magazine accepts no liability for material used. |
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