Today, I again bring my grain vessel
to the docks of your granary, father —
while breathing the wheat smells you loved,
me in Dagon Silo in Haifa,
you far away back in Cairo.
At the Dagon small museum —
Joseph in Egypt land, Canaanite jugs,
ritual bronze sickles from temples,
crushing-stones, mill-stones and mortars —
all link me back to you.
I remember your orange-beige office
in Cairo’s Mouski,
with deaf Tohami weighing
the heavy sacks of flour and grain
on old rusty scales,
and me listening to the symphony
of the birds’ chirped warning
on the beams of your ceiling:
“Wandering Jew, open your Jewish eyes,
you will soon have to spread your wings
again, and look for a new nest.”
Mighty Dagon’s giant arms storing in bulk,
fill my own silo with tears
that you are not here with me
to view this wonder
deftly handling bread to Israel —
the land you so loved
but are not buried in.
For you dear father,
I plant today a garden of grain,
for you, who always taught us
how to sow.
