for Yehuda Amichai You threw off your exile by clothing yourself in praise, Yehuda, saying, my nation is alive, Amichai, in me, inhabiting your own body, your mother-beloved skin. I'm hairy like you, and afraid, like you, I'm half-animal and half-angel, uncertain where my tenderness ends and cruelty begins. We did what we had to do, you wrote, which in translation reads: . Yehuda, I want your clarity— to love you, not close the gates of my heart like a nation trying to make itself a home but winding up with a state. Psalmist, you spoke so tenderly of peace, but the war persists. All I have for you is this poem: a man photographs the sudden undulating hills. Behind him, a woman he loves now dreams that their bed's legs grow roots beneath, overnight, and spreads a canopy of branches that shoot pink blooms open and open, now green with shushing leaves that shelter and shadow the rucked bedsheets, the branches burdened with red apples, apples like eyes ready to be praised and plucked. Copyright © 2019 by Philip Metres. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 28, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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