Henry Israeli

Rebirth

Today my father returns as a fox
scrambling to get off the road and into a copse.
He looks up at me passing by in my Highlander
for a fraction of a second, confirming his suspicion
that I would never live up to his expectations.
His big red tail—he’s always been so proud of it—
slithers away into the shrubs. As a bird,
he looks down at me in pity. As a deer,
he stands at the bottom of my driveway
and gives me that long sad stare. As a rabbit,
he takes what he can from my garden.
Then, in a blink, he’s gone, and I’m left longing
for his return. For he loves me, in his way,
the way a fire loves a tree.

---

Turn the Key Deftly

I spend all morning pulling words
from a dead man’s mouth. At first he resists
as only the dead can
giving me the glare
of one who’s always felt misunderstood.
Then he gives in, and I feel his body
grow light in my arms
with the unburdening of a vocabulary
lodged as if in a little vault
behind his ribs. He could be my father
or he could be an older me,
this is still unclear, even as the words
 
he’s kept hidden for years
spill out, which is a way of saying
there are mercies in this world
that beg to be said aloud, mercies to be heard at last.
There’s no pain now, he tells me, although he
no longer has a face
but a hole the size of a face
where his face used to be
and when I reach deep inside it
my fingers wrap around a pistol—    
its hard, cold grip making my hand feel
alive for the first time.




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Henry Israeli is the author of three collections of translations and three collections of poetry, most recently god’s breath hovering across the waters (Four Way, 2016). He is also the founder and editor of Saturnalia Books (www.saturnaliabooks.com), Associate Professor of English at Drexel University and Director of the Drexel Writing Festival.