Poems from Samuel Menashe

The Shrine Whose Shape I Am

The shrine whose shape I am

Has a fringe of fire

Flames skirt my skin

There is no Jerusalem but this

Breathed in flesh by shameless love

Built high upon the tides of blood

I believe the Prophets and Blake

And like David I bless myself

With all my might

I know many hills were holy once

But now in the level lands to live

Zion ground down must become marrow

Thus in my bones I am the King's son

And through death's domain I go

Making my own procession

My angels are dark

They are slaves in the market

But I see how beautiful they are

At a Standstill

That statue, that cast

Of my solitude

Has found its niche

In this kitchen

Where I do not eat

Where the bathtub stands

Upon cat feet —

I did not advance

I cannot retreat

From Samuel Menashe: New and Selected Poems. Copyright Samuel Menashe, reprinted with permission from the Library of America.