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Poetry || SubmissionsPoems by Rochelle MassWaiting is brutal Sirens seared the air. Soldiers made no announcements, just darted nervously - and the line of cars behind us stiffened. The officer near us removed his cap, wiped his face didn't look our way. Traffic lights continued green to red to green - a monotonous roll I tried to count, tallying my fear, but couldn't turn it into meditation. Trapped in our cars, we gaped at soldiers swiveling guns. Tension stretched round us. We repeated empty phrases not remembering when we arrived, how long we'd been there. Time hung, crumbled into another hour. Vague and confused we craved diversion, dazzled by the panic of what might happen. Night fastened a shadow to every form. Jerusalem in August I saw a chazav squill in my friend's garden. It pushed out of the summer earth amongst frayed weeds and twisted ferns rose above zinnias and asters that were brown and bent. The changing of the seasons has been marked there even though the sun is still perched high and stern even though the New Year is a full month away even though in our part of the valley there is no sign of change. Hands on a gun The soldier has slipped onto my shoulder again, his breath skips with the road. His head falls to my chest, I straighten, tightening the part of my back that usually goes sore on rides long as this. His knee hits mine, then flips away as the bus rolls, returns to mine, stays there. I feel his muscles. Hills are drying in the June sun. Goats and two camels pass on my side and dark children sell eggplants from plastic crates. The soldier's head falls almost into my arms, I lift his face. His hands stay on the gun, a scar goes from the thumb up the arm. Swollen and red. The bus makes a sharp turn. The low area between the hills is filled with black tents; wide women herd sheep and children to grass left after winter. The soldier has slipped again. I lift his face, saliva runs on my hand, then I touch his hair. The bus stops. Three soldiers push duffel bags in. The last eats cherries, spits out the stones. An old lady with parsley in her lap shouts at him, the next stone rolls under her skirt. The bus revs up and my soldier boy shakes himself like a dog out of water. Shalom he says to me. Shalom I say and feel the sweat I took each time I raised his head. Where are we? He asks and leans over to see more tents and goats. Almost there? He asks and answers long way yet. I want to look straight at him but study his hands on the gun, want to know if he's afraid. There's so much more I want to say but you can't talk like that to a man you hardly know. 4 women spread avocado mixed with horseradish and tabasco over chunks of bread with sesame seeds round the edge. One has a husband with a cane, coloestomy and a knee replacement. Sleeps most of the day and little of the night. One had a husband who left her as the children left for marriage college India. One threw out her husband. She's got an Arab now who won't leave his wife but brings chickens and apples from the Galilee, love in the mornings. One writes letters to a man she doesn't know waits for proof that she was heard. 4 women spread avocado mixed with horseradish and tabasco over chunks of bread with sesame seeds round the edge. More by Rochelle Mass at Ariga Today's Situation
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