Maybe I have known you always because
you are the mother of all cities
mother of fire and mother of mercy
city at the edge of wilderness
city of jewels, eucalyptus and crows
of sniper-safe tunnels to heaven
Maybe because you are a fortress
heir to the crushed promise
to see a savior break through a walled-up gate
like rays of sun from the desert to your east
Maybe because I once fell in love within your borders
and now you are all that’s left
with your graves on the Mount of Olives
stoic palm-trees
sweeping breezes that twirl windmill sails
like folk dancers
yellow ribbons flapping in the blue
Maybe I have known you always because
the Mediterranean is near
great sea of my youth
womb of my longings
at sunrise and sunset
where I first tasted figs and kisses
Now we are landlocked together, you and I
yet your terraced hills, your pines and cypresses
your crickets hiding in thyme bushes promise
that behind the next shrine
behind the next curve
there will be water
Julia Knobloch is a Los Angeles-based poet and rabbi. She received ordination from Hebrew Union College and has published three collections of poetry.
