Poem: Angels

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.