There are places that feel like the center of the universe.
We had our time in Jerusalem, 2009.
Suddenly everything slowed down a there was nowhere else to think to be.
First week in the old city I couldn’t stand the light,
Every brick acting as a mirror throwing fists kept me inside.
I needed some distraction or the all consuming fire of location would burn me whole.
Just moments away from the nexus of prayer, Al Aqsa Mosque and Kotel Ha’Ma’aravi.
The holy sites for book bound souls and I was afraid to see.
Slowly I climbed the steps, checked rooftops and found the passageways. Old city snakes it’s way into hearts, inspires war, “drain the blood but do not stain the street.”
I saw the very map of separation and felt safe on the wrong side of segregation.
Some time later, upon my rooftop in lotus position,
Krisha in my sky, and the god of Ezekiel.
The muezzin summon all the faithful.
I feel the pull of worship,
Confused in my belief but trying to unfold every meaning.
With the burden of another day,
Before the sun’s full scorch,
Peaceful people make the walk,
To shule or mosque or church.
Clouds can also hear the call,
Aords shake the heavens high,
And in my seat I feel the worship,
Of raindrops from the sky.