Elegy: Rehovot, Israel, 1984

A string of water pearls hung from an urn, once

retrieved from the Dead Sea by my Uncle Goel.

He was killed years later. Shot dead in his orchard

by someone stealing the fruit. It was Shabbat.

On the night of his murder

we all gathered at the pine table pulling leaves

from the Jaffa oranges he grew and loved.

The mirrors, which hung low, were covered.

Outside, white violets everywhere, suggesting

the next task: laying him down.

Toward him came the world, once, unguarded time.

The promise of old age now impossible to keep.

In the slow days that followed the burial,

much uncertain laughter.

Jokes. More promises.

Our sour breath gentled our mood,

We were hungry but could not confess to it.

Darker still was what we should do now.

On the last day my father led the prayer in perfect Hebrew.

Someone whistled in the kitchen and broke the spell

that shiva holds. No one took offense.

Any one of us might have turned to leave,

but we were shoulder-to-shoulder

where we stood in our sorrow and it seemed natural

to ask what now, of the salads and brown bread,        

of the bowls of citrus from the orchard edged in mint,

just-picked avocados dipped in lime juice,

so we ate.

Carine Topal

Carine Topal, a transplanted New Yorker, has been awarded residencies in the U.S. and abroad. She is the recipient of many awards and honors and has published five collections of poetry; her last publication is entitled In Order of Disappearance. She teaches in the desert and by the sea in Southern California.