Finally, we are free

walking under the sun

the ordinary has become

luminous on a country road

lined with trenches—

where are we?

France, Vietnam, Cambodia?—

pairs of rubber gloves

are lined up on their lips

turquoise blue, fuschia pink

yellow dots on black, water green

neatly laid one on top of the other

like hands quietly resting on knees

during a bus trip to the Galilee

Now we see trenches wide

and layered like rice fields

gloved people bent over the earth

bringing the hidden to light—

long             white             bones. The rest

cannot be told. The dream—

what echoes on the page

like nobody is

listening, like swimming

in the erractic sounds

of a piano

killed by the monsoons.

Tel Aviv spring skies, 2020

(This poem was first published in Self-Quarantine Lines, Jennifer K. Dick’s friendly blog.)

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