Schav

 

 

I.B. Iskov

 

 

I smell schav from thoughts,

ramble in that other language

without reason.

I imagine words

naked in their truths.

 

My shadow drags my whispers,

with high authority –

a lot of chutzpah

fades a little each day.

 

Bent by a notion,

I’m lying on my back as light

falls across the bed like a tallis.

I scrutinize the sanctity of the spread.

 

The moment jumps to life,

where a lump of schav

disappears into my mouth

like the thoughts

of a silent chorus.

 

 

 

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© 2007 Women in Judaism, Inc.



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