Deborah
by Yael Unterman
I sometimes pretend –
(When things are slow
When battles seem
So far away
That I no longer smell
The horses’ sweat.)
I pretend that
the palm’s fronds,
are fingers, descending –
caressing my face.
I sometimes pretend –
(When no one comes seeking
my judgment, on the
hill, beneath
the tree that they call
Deborah’s Palm.)
I pretend that I
am a plump, lazy mother
reclined on her doorstep
as her children play.
My arms wrap around them; they
wriggle from me –
their laughter is real, then
like the wind on my face.