Deborah
Come now and judge me,
like Deborah before the rain;
shadows congregate between us
in the hole that separates
justice from the just.
A fire is lit and burns
stronger in your eyes
than on the tinder
and I stand motionless
awaiting the falling
hail of Autumn
right before winter.
And you, there:
holy, becoming
yourself, your hand
outstretched, slender,
pointing—to me,
the dead,
the convicted.
Hail begins as
your hand falls down
in a signal.
