שאלת גרייס
אֲנִי מַרְגִּישָׁה מֵתָה. לֹא הִסְפַּקְתִּי לִשְׁאֹל אֶת גְרֵיס
אִם מְקֻבָּל לְהַתְחִיל טֶקְסְט בְּהַצְהָרָה כָּזוֹ
בֵּינְתַיִם עָזַבְנוּ אֶת נְיוּ יוֹרְק לִקְטִיף תַּפּוּחִים
מִשְׁנֵי צִדֵי הַכְּבִישׁ בָּעֲרוּ דְלָעוֹת סְבִיבֵנוּ
אַף פַּעַם לֹא נָסַעְתִּי בְּתוֹךְ שַׁרְווּל
כָּתֹם כָּל כָּךְ
וּכְשֶׁעָצַרְנוּ לִשְׁתּוֹת סַיְדֶּר בְּפֻנְדָּק מְקוֹמִי
דִּמִּיתִי לִרְאוֹת בֵּין אַנְשֵׁי הַחִטָּה
אֶת רֹאשׁ הַשֵׂיבָה שֶׁל גְרֵיס
בַבַּיִת קָרָאתִי שֶׁהִיא מֵתָה
Poets's Note: הסופרת האמריקאית גרייס פיילי
A QUESTION FOR GRACE
I feel dead. I never managed to ask Grace
if one may open a text with such a statement,
meanwhile we left New York to pick apples
and on both sides of the road pumpkins burned around us.
I’d never travelled inside a sleeve
so orange
and when we stopped to drink cider at a local inn
I imagined I saw Grace’s gray head
among the wheat-haired people
and at home I read that she was dead.
if one may open a text with such a statement,
meanwhile we left New York to pick apples
and on both sides of the road pumpkins burned around us.
I’d never travelled inside a sleeve
so orange
and when we stopped to drink cider at a local inn
I imagined I saw Grace’s gray head
among the wheat-haired people
and at home I read that she was dead.
Poets's Note: The American writer and activist Grace Paley (1922-2007)