A metal fence once rolled
against the side of my backyard
like a Berlin Wall
on the other side was my neighbor’s yard
my crust shone palid, his henna
my name Aviv, his Amir
my yard had a million roses
and lush jungle trees and phloxes;
his was a eucalyptus guarding a square of red earth.
We used to pitch pebbles over the fence
but we don’t anymore—
now I edge under and play games with him;
we used to call each other names through the metal
but we don’t anymore—
now he sings songs to me, songs of Abraham;
"Abraham, oh Abraham!" he sings,
and I didn't know he knew of my Abraham,
but now I know we both grew up in his shadow.
It’s beautiful.
We never took the fence elsewhere:
we erected another
taller and thicker than before
so I’d forget my neighbor’s name,
and I did, and so much more:
it was Muhammad or something like that;
and he is currently growing a thick mustache;
and through our white-noise TV screen,
I can feel his rage
ultraviolet rays of rage!
"The fence," he screams, "that fence!"
And then, through his voice, the
deep melodies of Abraham ring!
Abraham, oh Abraham, why?
And then, I remember--
the willow tree that climbed over--
how I used to climb it!
The hoary branches and white, fading trunk
Slumping over the side
We talked--how we talked--and now I realize:
He lied!
And he is furious! Furious!
"The fence," he screams, "that fence!"
I can feel his rage!
screaming!
cursing!
singing!
pleading!
crying!
And why, why?
Those eyes, they sting like metal!
He is praying!
He is begging for my death!
