It is beyond me, building this hut
according to the rules
Three walls, twenty cubits high
a roof of branches
to make clear to houses
of brick and stone
that they too are just a hut
in the scheme of things
I should have called a rabbi
with a squad of helpers
eager for points in heaven,
but I needed you
your Arab skin encountering mine,
its fragility.
Sally Michaelson is a conference interpreter in Brussels and her poems have been published in Lighthouse and Ink, Sweat and Tears.
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