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.