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Poetry || SubmissionsFive Poems from Orit PerlmanNIGHT Tiny zipper spines curled in sleep my babies dream of warm nipples, of zebras in fog I've wrapped them in cotton, in wool but the cold night air of Jerusalem sighs on their cheeks through the window open to the dangerous east. MILK I want to marry a goat man with jitter in his socks and drums in his hip with saffron in his curls and sun and blue blue wind in his eye and crime on his teeth when he smiles. I want to marry a goat man with flutes on his tongue and thorns in his toe with bones in his cheek and red red wine and war on his fists when he weeps and milk on his brow when he sleeps. THE WAY AWAY In this room we lie with our heads to the east. Each night my hair crawls into Damascus gate*, long and black, it snakes through the alleys finally stopped by the tangle of weeds and wishes fermenting in the cracks of the Wailing Wall*. Kubet Elsachra*, that fat moon, is poised in a golden haze above it. At 4:00 a.m. a headless voice rumbles from its orbiting mosques... Do I know him? That familiar moist rasp before he begins:"Allah hu akbar, Allah hu akbar" in a five fold echo delay. In this room with our heads to the east I can't sleep. All night I feel the sun erupting just beneath the horizon, it drills into the back of my head and tears into my eyes each morning. (That's not true, you say, you don't ever sleep here anyway.) I can't breath, I tell you, only the bad winds come from the east, and the loudspeakers of the police, "Amod! Amod batsad!"* I've become spoiled, you say, sleeping on the living room couch, as if I wasn't married and could do as I pleased, the open window pouring northern drifts cool as subterranean water, and my skin thousands of mouths, drinking and drinking body held by a heavy winter blanket even in August the air so cold here in Jerusalem, if facing the right way, the way away from here. *Damascus gate: gate leading into Moslem quarter of old Jerusalem. *Wailing Wall: last remnant of the outer walls of the sacred Jewish temple. *Kubet Elsachra: known as 'Dome of the Rock', sacred site for Moslems. *"Amod, amod batsad": Hebrew for:"You! Pull over!" (non-literal translation). COUNTING Quickly she dashes down the steps into the pool, into the pool One to her ankles Two to her knees Three to her belly Four to her neck Ruthie my Ruthie Five to the space above her head Six to her sinking Slowly I see her sinking Seven to my reaching the edge plunging in water, grasping under shoulders Eight to my raising her small heaviness through acres of clarity Nine to her screaming into my arms Ruthie, my little Ruthie Screaming and vomiting water. Ten. SUGAR The man who works let him be better The man who eats give him a bigger plate (his bones, his heavy bones) The man who sings let it echo longer than my own little-girl off-key soprano and deeper too. With more soul. After all, he is the salt of the earth, and I am but sugar melting, melting. About Orit Perlman Orit Perlman lives in Jerusalem. She's recently published poetry in "Voices from Israel", an anthology of Israeli writers published by 'Belle Terre Press'. This year three of her poems achieved honorable mentions in the 'International Reuben Rose Poetry Competition'. She belongs to the group 'Voices', which holds monthly meetings of English writing poets living in Israel. You can write to her c/o O Orit Perlman Today's Situation
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