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How proud my mother was; my son is a poet
the neighborhood women looked at her in awe, her son is a poet
neither doctor nor engineer, a poet
as if something otherworldly,
with wonder the shopkeeper wrapped fish in newspapers
and talked about the poets in the city of his birth
who the caliph beheaded.
In a dream my mother saw a head adorned with curls
a crown of thorns
summer pursued summer
wearing a bowtie and a tuxedo  
tortured Herzl in our living room looks amazed at Bialik
who smiles from the sideboard opposite
I look at the long beard my mother cleaned each Friday night
at the curtains she wanted to change
at the books at the floor tiles
her soul wasn’t tired from constant watching
what she did doesn’t matter
a man takes everything with him