Saying shema in the oldest synagogue
in Fès
part of a run-on sentence said before
and after me,
as the long-gone rabbi still brays
among lanterns and blue walls
and sheep graze on the hillsides below
among soul-white stones of the Jewish dead.
As a water droplet cut with a knife
as the Red Sea parts, closes, makes us cross again.
Everything that brought me to this moment
is carried inside, written in salt water and suffering
amidst nihilism and terror,
moistening my lips as I stand on the plain women’s balcony
near the rooftops, t-shirts and sweats blowing.
