Departures Lounge

The souvenir shop in Departures, Ben Gurion

sells scented candles from the Holy Sepulchre.

They smell of all I can and can’t believe.

They smell of chant, stone, wax, sandalwood

the smell of bee, neck, smoke, flesh, salt

the smell of words that come and steal sleep

the smell of worship, gossip, blinkered love

the smell of hope, fear, skin that’s seen no sun

the smell of camel, donkey, souk, silk road

the smell of commerce markup souvenir.

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The souvenir shop sells black and white postcards

of David Ben Gurion declaring independence

or doing a head stand on the beach.

The airport posters smile but the streets

don’t smile. Eyes look around their own corners

or straight ahead. Bellies sweep side to side.

Arms swing as if the land is a woman you can buy.

I don’t want you to speak English here. I don’t want

your preoccupations just now.

Peran’t kotse. Shut your mouth. Shoo biddak?

What do you want? Knaa. Ru’uh. Go away.

Tayib. OK. Masbout. That’s right.

Sarah Mnatzaganian