Fable of Flesh

after Giacometti’s Palace at 4 AM 

At 4 AM the bells
                             swallow their keys 
              and a spine swings in its cage.

If the woman is a dream 
                             what the spine dreams of
              warm balcony at the top of the tongue,

how many rooms does she bring?
                             Stories hung about her neck
              and waist like the iron weight 

of a dowry. Hair tightly pulled 
                             and a burlap dress, nevertheless 
              toothsome in shadows, statuesque.

The temple pauses on one foot
                             to listen to the deep between 
              breaths. Who knew a world 

of crutches and stilts awaits, 
                             a tilt just above sinking?
              The palace hears branches 

canticle in winter; the palace 
                             longs for Avignon in spring.
              The splintered aftermath—

an abstract of wood, glass, 
                             wire, string, and a pair 
              of wings stretched and pinned 

to the walls. Here we are flightless 
                             but we are not alone here 
              we are so thin.

- by Hadara Bar-Nadav, 2006