At this time of sand and teeth

we sink to our knees, crushed like grapes,

ground like corn, crumbled like strong buildings.

I think of how to forget the tone

of our dreams and songs in the morning,

our prayers and dreams at night.

I wonder how we will remember the pace

and the paths up the warlike mountain,

the tracks and the tales of those who return.

They come back—wild eyes, burnt skin—

with voices like so many fires in the dark,

not knowing how to paint the source of the light they have seen.

We know that Isaac must have wept

and kept a fear of knives along with his heart;

the sound of angels made him shimmer like snow.

There are those who feel at home on Masada

and those who choose to stay in the homeless camps below;

both must learn to love and use the weapons we now hold.

On top of the mountain, myths are born, heroes and war cries

down below babies are born and mothers who’ll steal for food

while those who hurt howl in pain.

The world is whole and it is breaking—

their pain, our pain—who can name the difference

when all the pieces of the world are ours to embrace?