If the groans and shrieks of martyrs, the shofar cry
of Yom Kippur really rend the heavens, then I picture it
like this: clouds are ripped as if by swords, and angels spill
and spread across the world.
Once a rabbi fled from Poland
to the tranquil town of Tzfat, enduring unutterable privations
and fear along the way. As the Galilean hills lift and lull
his tired feet, an angel infestation fills his red, chapped ears.
Their voices chirrup from synagogue
to synagogue, he can
almost glimpse their ragged white beneath the turquoise doors,
like lice beneath a skirt of lettuce. And so he leaves for Tiberius
complaining that the angels had kept him up at night.
From “Immigrant” (Black Lawrence Press, 2010)
Marcela Sulak, author of “Immigrant” and the chapbook “Of All the Things That Don’t Exist, I Love You Best,” has translated three collections of poetry from Habsburg, Bohemia; and Congo, and is co-editing “Family Resemblance: An Anthology and Exploration of Eight Hybrid Literary Forms.” She directs the Shaindy Rudoff Graduate Program in Creative Writing at Bar-Ilan University.