YOU DON\'T NEED A HANDBAG, REBECCA

You don’t need a handbag, Rebecca, with face
toward the store window, head tilted back and to the right,
a black horse passes between her and her aunt
and she doesn’t yell. She simply stands there
with her head turned. The sun sends out
long arms to melt the popsicle, whose drips encircle its fingers.
Such indifference can drive you mad,
why doesn’t it make her cross? There goes the popsicle
and the sleeve of her dress. She turns her head
240 degrees left. The horse                                
recedes and the black hair
of the rider seems to surge toward her.

אַתְּ לֹא צְרִיכָה תִּיק, רֶבֶּקָה

אַתְּ לֹא צְרִיכָה תִּיק, רֶבֶּקָה