OLD MAN TIES THE STRING WHILE I BREATHE

Air tightens. Dust from outside. Smoke coasting

along our stubborn train. Time crooked

and bent like the ancient roads for mules

carrying wood and grapes up and down

the mountain outside the window. No name

in my books and I’m forgetting my own 

as the uniformed man screams. Dogs think

we’ll understand them if they bark louder.

Time wrinkles its nose at his sweat and bends

my head down. His shoes. One dusty, one

polished like a mirror. Bystryy! Faster! 

I must hurry but doing what? I pull out

my passport to show him, meek, fake smile

under my bangs. Hand ignored. Shoes

closer, knee grinds against mine, lifting

my skirt, he bends, knife in hand. To buy

time, I say Tak, Russian for stalling.

Between my legs he pulls out my package. 

Too impatient he cuts the string, snip 

snip, he tears the wrapping, stares at me. 

Without a word he leaves to read 

a stolen two-week-old newspaper.

PUBLISHED in Tikkun, March, 2023