To cut is to connect, to bind
a covenant, a book, a wound,
our name the name of patriarchs
who say, the lance will give you
possession of the place, and who
does not dream of possession,
a home, a haunt, a shibboleth.
Without it you have no birthright
to divide. Besides, as history
tells us, the sky is murderous,
with more than one paradise
to torch us to a flock of stars.
In Canaan the air is signed in smoke.
Long ago I asked my father
if God loves His enemies,
does everybody get to heaven.
What of the lambs that go to slaughter
to bloody the doorways of the tribe.
Did I come into this world
a criminal, my tongue a sword,
to cut the sky from its horizon.