“She Comes. She Goes. She Comes.,” “On the Fence,” and “In the collection”

“She Comes. She Goes.  She Comes.,” “On the Fence,” and “In the collection”
Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash

She Comes. She Goes. She Comes.

She disappears

takes with her

something created together

I move forward to where she stood

the absence of her presence

leaves behind a vacuum

I am left to hold the shape

of our encounter          its hue green

against the blue of the sea

the memory of her dress

I reach to touch

but it moves

not a phantom

an invitation to follow

I silently call

onto the blue and green of the memory

both dissolving

and reappearing inside me

she keeps coming back

drawing me

into something ancient

come, she says,

with an unclear gesture I do understand

I hesitate

miss the disappearing

blue and green of her dress

tall with a quiet step brushing

against the ground

I chase it

again and again

I give you my story

writing with my bare feet

a poem of the ground

It is me who comes and goes

appears and disappears

I am not done,

she says,

maybe someday

we'll sculpt the us

with our eyes.

On the Fence

I sit on the fence.

Watching.

Sometimes moaning.

A tall wide fence.

 

I sit with comfort.

 

On the fence.

 

I watch the bombs

and the bullets dance inside,

hint of dust and smoke lands

on the fence

on my clothes

 

it clouds my tears

 

my thoughts.

 

I look at the edges of truth

the edges of justice

the edges of prayers

holding my guilt as a treasure

 

a trophy

 

which I display and write a short poem about.

 

I remember to feel guilt

make sure the shame colors

the walls of the fence

I watch the dead buried

the unfound stories abandoned

concrete heaps become art

 

I sit on the fence.

 

I notice the fuzzy air

 

the dust blurs the photos I take

while I feel guilt and shame

and proud of feeling it

 

I notice that I am not the one   dead

In the collection

she finds a key,

a bag of candy,

for the road before leaving with

a small suitcase, hinges rusted,

carrier of mementos.

It laid, the suitcase,

small, stashed with others

all shades of ash

old-time clasps click and squeak

opening and locking, guardians,

words in frames, black and white,

faces dissolve into yellowed backgrounds

stories remembered and forgotten,

on tarped  tent floor,

she finds the black comb

runs it through her long black hair,

dessert sand and memories rain

on the tent's floor

she sweeps them with her small hand,

the sand and her memories

About the Author

Michal Rubin

Michal Rubin is an Israeli, living in Columbia, SC for the past 33 years. The impetus for her writing came from the years-long Israeli-Palestinian conflict. As a psychotherapist, a Cantor and a poet, she brings forth the challenge of distinguishing truths from myths, awareness vs. denial, conformity vs. individuation. Her work was published in Psychotic Education, The Art and Science of Psychotherapy, Wrath Bearing Tree journal, Rise Up Journal, Topical Poetry, Fall-Lines, The Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Waxing & Waning: A Literary Journal, South Carolina Bards Poetry Anthology 2023, Palestine-Israel Journal, The New Verse News, Dissident Voice, and a chapbook, "Home Visit", published by Cathexis Northwest Press.