As we step over stones,
weaving like the roots of olive trees along the misty hillside,
I slip on a glimmer of sun on slick rock.
Peter chokes down a snort
but the woman with the flower tattoo
laughs with me,
her voice galloping across the valley and echoing
towards Hermon’s mount.
I’d stay here, if I could, under the sun and swallows,
my face moist from the rain
—rather than from spittle and sweat—,
brought to tears by the sea when it glints
like a mosaic box from Syria,
shards of mother-of-pearl and the deepest blue
—instead of by my mother’s fallen face on a Jerusalem street.
But I will go
even though it means that the wrenching
in my chest will not loosen
and will only grow tighter
like knots on trees
or a nail driven between the sinews
of cedar in my late father’s woodshop.
Yet, in my mind I’ll return—
to the basalt seashore
where the smell of fish scales charred by fire
and the calls of the sea birds
and the laughter of those I love
remain.
This poem also appears in the June 2024 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 89, No. 6, page 8). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
