Waiting for the massive bombardment

to begin again

living in anticipation of the siren—

being woken every night

at two, at three, at five,

running down the stairs—

one child in your arms,

another stumbling drowsily beside you,

trying not to trip—

all the neighbors already there:

men, women, children,

a newborn baby since yesterday,

dogs, cats—

life compressed into a shelter.

Don’t start to undress—

it sets the siren off.

Don’t step into the shower—

it sets the siren off.

Don’t even think of sex—

it sets the siren off.

You may leave the shelter,

but stay close to it.

Waiting for the massive bombardment

to begin again

A siren at dawn.

Neighbors in pajamas.

A siren in the day—

some still in pajamas.

You may leave the shelter,

but stay close to it.

A siren in the evening—

someone opens a bottle,

puts on music,

people begin to sing, to dance,

because what else is there to do.

A siren deep in the night.

Another siren deep in the night.

You may leave the shelter,

but stay close to it.

There will be another siren.

There is always another siren.

You start to joke about it—

about sirens, about shelters,

about weddings in shelters,

holidays in shelters,

Purim parties in shelters,

birthday parties in shelters.

I had hoped to do something special,

something memorable 

for my 30th birthday.

Waiting for the massive bombardment

to begin again.

Why did I pour gin into my coffee?

Why did I add salt on top of that?

Woken for the hundredth time

in twenty-two days,

you no longer know your name.

During the day

you work from home,

children learning through a screen,

you feed them between alarms.

You eat and eat and eat

between alarms,

trying to quiet

the constant hum of fear.

Calls from friends in Germany:

“Are you okay?”

Calls from friends in Ukraine:

“Are you okay?”

Waiting for the massive bombardment

to begin again

Ballistic missiles from Iran.

Cluster munitions.

Drones from Lebanon.

Rockets from Lebanon.

The war has been going on for a week.

For a month.

The war has been going on

for thousands of years.

You may leave the shelter.

You may not leave the shelter.

You may choose not to go to the shelter.

You may leave the shelter,

but stay close to it.

Waiting for the massive bombardment

to begin again.