My grandmother believes
garlic cures all ills,
even feverish, frenzied fears
so I sneak fresh cloves into my son’s soup,
I burn and boil
onion and garlic
Cooking my way through lockdown:
breakfast snack lunch snack supper midnight snack,
damn jungle of kids
I’m scared at the doctor’s office,
waiting to remove my son’s splinter
stuck deep beneath a fingernail.
The flimsy white plastic chair feels
like sitting on a germ grenade,
my boy lolling on the tiled floor
a viral torpedo.
My footprints lie inwards,
I walk the dog in circles of 100m,
my mind on an escaped leash
moving beyond what’s allowed.
The birds are singing more these days
or am I just stopping more, listening now?
I find prayer in a piece of garlic
to peel to chop
to cook to steam
and blow like an east wind,
over Jerusalem and the Judean Hills
towards the Mediterranean and Jordan valley.
Feel the wind blow
and let us sit on the corner
of the moon,
knowing there is nothing
we can’t live without
and nothing we can.