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Poetry of Sholeh Wolpé <Back To Poems Home Page
Jerusalem, Aug. 10, 2001
Rabbis rush out into blood-
splashed streets in white gloves
picking up pieces
from the sidewalks
dusty hoods of dented cars.
A hand, a toe, a nose.
For to rest in peace
one must be buried whole.
A child, her tears thinning
the blood on her cheeks,
stumbles over bodies, calling out
to her mother and when she finds her
she cannot fathom why her mother will not rise,
take her hand and lead her away.
A man bleeds from a gap
between his legs as he begs
for help from a soldier
who’s really just a boy in uniform.
The boy throws down his gun
vomits not just the breakfast
his mother made him that morning.
Will the rabbis see this and rush over,
pick up with their white gloves
the tenderness of this boy splashed
on the sidewalk and put it back
inside him so he can be whole again?
— Sholeh Wolpé
From: The Scar Saloon (Red Hen Press)
Audio from The Scar Saloon --CD
