2025-01-01
by
Eleanor Goldfield
dragging the beat
autumn,
from the summer of our discontent
the fall
warm days and leaves
spiraling in a cliché
dreamscape around me
I listen to the sound of bombs
translated by a small digital bubble
my friend apologizing for being late
two seconds of silence
another bomb
this one louder
the next one softer
two seconds of silence
another bomb
this one softer
the next one louder
another bomb
I stare at the sanitized representation of sound
the small vertical dashes interrupted by gashes
Another bomb.
Dragging
the beat
Another bomb.
I still don't know what to write
I love words, and they fail me daily
or do I fail them...
a soft breeze whips leaves
from delicate limbs
down to me
how many bombs fell
in the flight of leaves
two seconds
bomb.
Two seconds
bomb.
My synapses stagger
stutter a beat
in a swirl of leaves
to my quiet sky
the only death, cycles of return
can I share this sky with you, my friend
Am I praying
or just wasting time
I see no gods when I pray
just sky
and leaves
the fall
I make calls
I hold space and lines
I am doing -
something?
Praying
or just wasting time
I gather donations
funnel them to concentration camps
a small crack in a tsunami of concrete
how many does it take to drown a wave
he writes
all will be well, inshallah
bomb.
Two seconds.
Bomb.
Two seconds.
I don't want him to hear it
so I listen
I don't want him to feel this, so I feel -
And maybe
I pray -
dragging
the beat
on repeat
I let myself fall -
a cycle, like a flight of leaves
in love, in desperation, in helplessness and rage
I sharpen emotions like blades
I feel it all
and let it fall
all of it
into the sky and beyond
bury into earth
swoop from ruins
like a promise
a dedication
to spring
to a rebirth
where your messages will be sounds of laughter
dancing lines of audio
like dabke choreography
beneath a quiet sky
between a river and a sea
life
all of it
free
two seconds.
I do not write any of this
two seconds.
simply
take care, my friend.
Two seconds.
A flight of leaves
a beautiful death
neither hurried nor stressed
under a quiet sky
trees stretch free
limbs strong and old
many years from now
in Palestine
I think I call this praying