The muffled moans and sheets shuffling stumble,
Tripping, still inebriated, back to the place where sounds fall asleep;
The floor and wall outside form a perfect angle for my back,
Supporting me in this time of need.
A pause in the rustlings, and through the keyhole comes,
Their parting is marked by
The click of the door lock and then toweled legs;
I am silent, unnoticed on His way downstairs.
What is sexile?
Was there ever a Sexodus?
Did an unwilling servant of God hear a talking bush (or fish),
And lead us, The sexiled,
Those who cried up to God, Those who are supposedly His Chosen,
To the Promised Land?
Where we could be free to sexile ourselves,
An eye for an eye,
And the whole world's fucked?
He comes back upstairs, the thunder of steps,
One hand on teal towel,
One on two bottles of water;
He lets me retrieve my book,
So long as I ‘cover my eyes.'
I close my eyes and slouch through Israel.