Poem

Issac and Ishmael

A bitter dough has risen
from the sweaty yeast of men
clawing at survival,
at the frayed fringes of hope.

After centuries lain on the alter,
a khaki generation is despairing
at the silence of angels,
the absence of Ram caught in thicket,
no miracle this time to stop short the knife.

When at the kiddish table,
siblings both wounded
pitted once more against each other
break the bread of their brothers
defeated flesh
and drink the wine of his tears
their tongues cease to taste.

Is this the blessing
that will cleanse our souls
or the food that will nourish us,
or can we awaken our senses
to deeper truths;
the grief of our separation
the anger at sibling rivalry
the hunger for peace?

By Ami
April, 2003