That bath was my undoing,
a ritual ended in ruin—
the billow of the king’s cloak
a rooftop shadow I never saw,
his summons unexpected.
To refuse the king is death—
most days I wish I had.
Instead, over and over I turn
my head away from the sharav
of his unfamiliar breath.
When he sent for you
I waited with dates and honey
craving the cool river of your touch
but you, loyal soldier, saw me not,
were returned to battle unaware.
They brought me your dented armor,
hollow as the king’s promise.
You, squandered like small coin.
Me? A conquered country.
Sharav: in Hebrew refers to scorching heat or a hot, dry wind.
