Holy War

Holy Land, holy war,
     and the Saturday morning prayer
     pecked
     with pops of bullets.
Each "Amen" is punctuated by a firm "crack."

Holy Land, holy war,
     and the scent of baking Shabbat
     bread as it twists into the acrid odor of blood--
     only a block away.

The taste of peace fills my mouth, bulging my cheeks
     in all of its addictive,
     intoxicating,
     saccharine flavor.
Then there is the taste of revenge.
Like water, it is flavorless...ordorless.
It boils, scalding my mouth---
     leaving my taste buds buzzing
     and the pink flesh of my inner cheek
     stinging.

Holy hopes, holy war,
and the feel of my father's fingers,
     coarse and worn,
wrinkled like his thick camouflage suit.
I know the valleys of his hand like I know the rough creases
     of his uniform.
Here I've leaned my head,
     innumerable times.

He's been gone so long.
All that I remember are his hands.
In our final moment together, his left hand held a gun
     and his right the skullcap of his youth.
He held it fast on his head as he placed an army hat
     atop his kepah.
Then he tucked The Torah into his gun sack
     for Friday night readings in the trenches of a war.


Jill Abramson

This work received a Gold Award in The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards of 2002.
For more information about The Awards, go to www.artandwriting.org.

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