Of course I think of her all the time,
walking with her belly in the streets
of Jerusalem,
thinking all the time that at any minute
she might make herself give birth
to the rusted nails, shrapnel,
bullets in one big explosion
that might enter
the eye or the heart
of the baby in the stroller
wheeling towards her
at this very moment.

Or maybe she stops, suddenly
seeing a face in the Jewish crowd
that recalls her own grandmother
bent even now over shopping
And turns back

to face
whatever humiliations
that await
a living

First published in Bridges, and Ariga