Gay in Jerusalem
Two women face the ruins
At the foot of the Temple’s last wall withstanding
the ages long tragedy sits two young women one
in paisley pashmina, silky to the touch, red gold the other
bothered by phantoms, refusing the pray, utterly lost
With pizza in their teeth and vodka on their breath they
reach out a hand to one another and sing an ancient limerick
kind of a prayer, kind of not, it’s hard to explain to someone
who wasn’t there — they both wear long skirts and have flowers in their hair
There are few things you can do about desire except
lock it up like a dove behind bars, or otherwise succumb
to its incessant flight and song. Can’t it just be easy?
I wonder sometimes why God would do this to us especially
those two girls, hardly twenty, as if there’s nothing left to say
to excuse Himself, before He just runs off again, leaving them
to their own witchy devices. It’s bizarre how for someone so prolific
exacting law enforcement wouldn’t be a top priority, I mean
why would He make love like cotton candy, if it wasn’t meant to be?
