and Bialik


Sky—have mercy. When flechettes fly forth from a shell,
 shot by a tank
 taking Ezekiel’s
 chariot’s name—


When their thin fins invisibly whiz, whiflling the air like angels, wings— their metal feathers guiding them in—


When their hooks rip through random flesh in a promise of land with its boring sun— Is it like the priests, release in Leviticus?


The male without blemish and dashed blood? The limbs in pieces? The tents of meeting? The burnt offering? Does it hasten deliverance?


Or summon Presence? Is its savor pleasant? As the rage unfurls in a storm of flame and the darts deploy in a shawl of pain?

Does it soar like justice? Contain a God? Expose a Source? What will is known? Does it touch a throne? Can we see a crown?


As the swarm scorches the air with anger, and the torches of righteousness extend their reach— What power is power? Whose heart gives out?


When skin is pierced to receive that flight, what light gets in? What’s left of sin? What cause is served? What cry is heard?


Wben the blood of infants
 and elders spurts
 across t-shirts does it figure forever? As it wreaks its change and seeks revenge


above the abyss?
 Could Satan devise
 vengeance like this— war which is just… an art of darkness? Have mercy, sky.


Jerusalem, The Gaza War, 2014