On summer nights I sleep naked
in Jerusalem. My bed
stands on the brink of a deep valley
without rolling down into it.
In the daytime I walk around with the Ten
Commandments on my lips
like an old tune someone hums to himself.
Oh touch me, touch me, good woman!
That’s not a scar you feel under my shirt, that’s
a letter of recommendation, folded up tight,
from my father:
“All the same, he’s a good boy, and full of love.”
I remember my father waking me for early prayers.
He would do it by gently stroking my forehead, not
by tearing away the blanket.
Since then I love him even more.
And as his reward, may he be wakened
gently and with love
on the Day of the Resurrection.
