Twilight in the skies of Nazareth
one thousand nine hundred and fifty years ago
I a green-eyed girl
barefoot and wild
would surely have plowed
the brown Nazareth hills with you.
I’d have kissed your inflamed eyes
smelled in your hair the smoke of smoldering dung
and dragged you with me, all the way to the top of the hill
and shouted and shouted Jesus! Jesus!
Look – there’s blood in the sky
A wound in the quarried mountain
at its peak I see mounted in the last rays
Jesus fixed barefoot, wide-eyed to the abyss to
the sharpened stones waiting for him at the end of his desperate leap.
Now, in a field of ripening sunflowers
between Tel Adashim and Ginegar
I see, in the fading sheaves
his feet bleeding into the valley’s soil.