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Ohel


ISSUE:  Spring 2012

The need to be heard does not change,
the need to get close. Again we tear
our request, scatter it across the grave.

The first time we came we barely knew
what to ask for, what to do: knock
before entering to clear some room,

fast before knocking. Before the city,
before the slow time of waiting,
stones crown the two tombstones,

a wedding invitation spotted with rain,
letter after letter read aloud
as if each were theirs.

Whenever he needed, he came here.
Just as the righteous are greater in death,
a marriage without children counts

backward, the gray light measuring
a skyline of torn paper, white stone.

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