The Maynard
October 2013

Rena Rossner


The donkey boy visited again
yesterday, he brought his sister
I call her goat girl. They watched
the rock rabbits burrow, she sat
on his lap until the sun came, hot
and relentless. The sky wrapped
them in silver foil, shining
and I went back to sleep, listening
to the sound of children splashing
in the neighbor's pool. They fell in
and drowned there, and you said
that all you heard was desert-punk
music, rising from a rave in the valley.

Later we drove to the dead
sea, passing local camels and pots,
drinking blended ice coffee, smelling
zaatar, and you pointed
them out to me, riding, still riding
the donkey, near the turnoff
to the baptism site.

Ants crawl all over my skin
and I wake up dreaming of
magicians who conjure insects
from caves filled with biblical scrolls
and we learn a new lexicon
words that never existed for: faith
and bread. And now I cannot
fill a bowl with water
without remembering.