Unfinished Poem, by Shirley Kaufman


We live on a holy mountain
where the crows and the Crown Plaza
rise higher than our expectations
and the golden dome is only
a restored reflection
of the absolute.
All night the bodies of prophets
break out of the clouds
calling, “Doom, doom.”
Like the carp we bring home
from the market, our lives
are wrapped up in newsprint.
My friend says she’d like to
cut off her head and let all
the Jewish history run out.
We lift weights together
twice a week to increase
our bone density.

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