Elaina M. Ellis - Hanina's Letters

I.
A friend once claimed she saw my hair spell words
in wild cursive on the pillow, while I drooled on into sleep.

A poet, even when you snore, she said. I said, I don't snore!
She said, Metaphor. I said, Right. But is it true about my hair?

Then I thought...it makes a certain sense:
the burning bush that is my hair, my hair that curls
because I am a Jew, would speak a burning word
or two out of the desert of my sleep. Oh,

that is deep! I said. She said, What? I said, Exactly. What?
What are we, if not poetry of family tree?

She said, But,
I said, What?

She said, What language did your hair leak onto pillow?
I said, You tell me!

She said, See, you were spelling fast. I didn't think to ask.
So I said, Language of the past!

You know that Jews read backwards, right?
She said, Books read right to left?

I said, Yes, time-travel style!
She said, We are in the future?
I said, Yes, and my hair is in the past.

She said nothing. I said, Hair is in the past!
She just laughed and said, I'm out. This is too queer,

and then she passed out on the couch. I watched her hair
for minutes in the moonlight. Straight as grass. Silent
as dew. I twirled my curls and sighed, it's true. It's queer
to be a poet. A poet and a Jew.

( parts II and III )

August photos - views from St Mary's, Oxford

( Grotesques, scenery and sundials )