I.
Eyes, eyes, wake up! Dogs gone. Staircase 
narrow. Unreliable threshold, handrails. 
Dust mixed in spit with chewing tobacco. 
Watch your step! No way to run toward 
the door out into the open square, streets 
sky wide, dome filled with crying pigeons, far 
away rattling trains, distant hoot of ships. Floor 
covered with dirty luggage ripped and cheap, 
chalk marks, frames breaking open like distor-
ted mouths. No space to disturb the universe. 
Navigate a single light bulb, burned out
among cobwebs. To be young. To want
to leave. To not know what to do. All these 
strangers waiting in line, keeping the door
open, letting in more flies and the heat, blinding
light from outside. Stink from the toilet. Shit
and vomit. A mother, young daughter, blood
down their chins. Helpless. My Moroccan bag, 
wine red, heavy. I fling them my extra T-shirt
making the mime’s gesture circling my face. 
Wind or crowd slam the door shut. Next 
to the proprietere, keeper of keys, a wall:
chessboard of messages torn, thumbed
notes from underground. Grief’s crooked 
root hooked in the writing on that wall. 
One note—a woman’s name scribbled 
across—torn from a passport.

II.
Holy, holy places like to be on high: 
let visitors sweat before arriving, be
a little sore and thirsty, more easily
impressed. Surrounded by dolomite
steps, limestone stairs pouring down
toward city markets, hot lava. Gout
hates stairs and I hate the gout, but up
we go, hanging from banisters like
broken balloons. Sight scattered
among ancient Sahara gold. Crevice
crevice of the wall, what is the silence
of your call? Young in my marriage
I dream of children, don’t like it—
we’re separated by that wall. Such
is the law! I, on the women’s side, so close
to the men’s I can touch it, chanting the Shema
loud, my protesting trumpet. God knows
what happens when you silence women.
I repeated louder: Shema Yisrael. Listen Israel!
Later he claims he heard me among the tourist
buses and laughing church bells. In my pocket
a crumbled hotel receipt. I scribble my prayer
in Hebrew, making sure I close the final Mem
to keep the meaning. They’ll bury it in the Jewish 
Cemetery on Mount Olive long after I am gone,
prayer answered? I remember backing away,
keeping my eyes on that tricky old wall of cold stone.