Tel Aviv Promenade
by stewart florsheim
This afternoon
knows little about war—
the promenade full of children
riding tricycles,
jugglers surrounded
by young crowds,
parents smiling
behind their cameras.
Moshe says
we’re only worried
about the borders,
this city is safe.
Nearby, a young clown
with one leg
blows up balloons.
A girl chooses
Mickey Mouse:
her quiet Toda.
Diaspora
I say Kaddish for my parents
at the Wailing Wall
and then find two stones
to take home
and place on their graves.
On the flight home
the pilot announces
we’ll stop on Cyprus to refuel:
the gas at Ben Gurion
might be contaminated with explosives.
I miss all my connections.
The journey of two stones
could have been so simple.
Jerusalem
In the Old City, a guide tells his group
it’s safe to walk around, all the quarters
monitored by surveillance cameras.
I look up and see a steel gray lens
lilting back and forth,
an eye trying to anchor in time:
A man in a black hat and coat
crosses the road in front of a car
reading from his prayer book.
He mumbles in Hebrew
and then his voice begins to tremble—
a yud shimmers
like a butterfly stopped in mid-air.
Alongside him a man in a djellaba
hears the muezzin’s cries
and breaks into a run,
his urgent Allah ak-bar, Allah ak-bar
parting the crowd.
We go back to our apartment,
walls made of Jerusalem stone.
I stare at one piece until I see a face emerge —
a lion resting, merely resting.
Stewart Florsheim was born in New York, the son of refugees from Hitler’s Germany. He has been widely published in magazines and anthologies, and has received several awards for his poetry. Stewart lives in Piedmont with his wife, two daughters, and their dog, Roxie.