Drunk City

My Drunk City | Edna Aphek

People are drunk in my city. Drunk from the voice of the dead emanating from the cobbled streets;  drunk from the air that was once inhaled and ex-haled by Kings and martyrs and G-Ds that deigned in my city.

I love my city. I keep making love to my city, rolling naked in its streets, capturing its ancient erotic beauty, unmarred by the multitudes of wars and armies that passed through my city.

I have been to many cities: East, West, North, South. Never tried to make love to them; never fancied them.

I am going back to my city, which is awaiting me with an IV- filling my veins, rejuvenating my soul, pumping life into my hollow being. For as long as I am away from my love, I am a hollow, lonely woman, searching for substance.

I'll get out of my car, the one waiting for me at the airport, and Jerusalem feathers will slowly descend on my face. I am turning my face up, so that I'll feel their gentle love.

Jerusalem summer wind is caressing and bandaging the holes nails made in the past. Her children are beating their swords into ploughshares.

I am drunk. I am in the midst of all this. The dead of Jerusalem are circling me, rising to greet me.

"I am yours"  I keep saying, "for we were wed in blood".

The circle is lifting me. I am finally home.

Campbell May 2013