Unreliable, maps from East Jerusalem, imaginary sketches, drawn, redrawn,
deny our first cartographer. Our search for His original copy continues,
takes time, thousands more years perhaps, countless generations
aided by map prayers offered by yet unborn grandchildren.
Time, a Roman’s scratch on a block wall against which Jesus leaned. So did we,
careful to leave our mark, impressions, their hint of transcendence, blood
from wounds that haven’t healed. Today, Jerusalem bags memories
in headlines; kisses pass through, slough like rain. Fleet love
attaches to psalms’ embrace, borrows meaning from David’s silhouette; we
rejoice in fecundity even as history unrobes angels of death at battles
for Golan or Sinai where stark beauty rivals taupe red rock of
Eilat, sculpts into contours too sensuous not to be fought for.