Stranger / Indian Summer

The tiger, he still watches me, I can almost
hear him breathe - should I have shot him that
very first time, cut his whiskers, to show off
in town? - now he paces, circling around me,
almost lazy, sure of his kill
for I am pinned down by his keen, yellow-eyed
intention, - or is it danger's fascination?
when the sirens will finally go off, it will
be too late, - only my sandals shall be found in
the tall grasses, by the pond
It shall be a summer day - friends will bring
flowers, and everyone will say: what love, how
great a passion had they!
and in the Zoo where they shall bring him,
Tiger, will become a children's pet,...



Nomi Ben-David

Things That Fly

I.
My niece speaks in riddles
to her uncaged bird

like Francis of Assisi and his flock
of wolves, a shining mist at dawn descends
like a wall to words between them.

II.
Misery may be folded
in half, like a sheet
of blank paper. Or filled
with words. No matter.
It is only a first step.

You must continue the folds, parallel
To each side, until their intricacy
builds on itself, forms a delicate
grace. Separate. Facing itself.

In Japan, there are beautiful words
For each step. This way misery dies

in equal parts, until it forms
a paper missile at twelve noon
to fling out any window, without
aiming. But only from a great height.




Jim Carroll,
from "The Book Of Nods"