Warriors cannot stop
contemplating exile
although they want
only to sit
Hand caressing cheek
dry eyes closed now
because who
wants to see
What happened since
pottery was buried
future hints
no one holds
Without the clay handle
of jugs we question
such redness
such brown cracks
So we become cracked earth
racked with reasoning
an arm flung
over our past
What we want is such repose
on naked knee
uncovered
by digging
Dirty clothes need to be washed
thinking won’t find
forefathers
lost tent pegs
But I cannot stop this digging
in the dirt to find
the thinking
Jew displaced
In the tomb of burial gifts
we learn slowly
alongside weapons
and donkey bones
Published in The Ekphrastic Review