It’s enough with one of them.
It’s not necessary that both of them will die. One of them is enough
To redeem the other from hell. But neither of them
Will volunteer to die. There was in each of them an animal sense
Not to surrender to annihilation. Not to submit to the flow of forgetfulness.
One is gripped by a lack of silence pinching the soul and the other one
To a young lover that thought to take her to the Dead Sea. Not to the Sea of Death.
Covered her with the mud of desire.
The other who was a revealed hell. The other
Who fucked her life for
More than half a century. This other
Is now close to ninety and he
Calls and tells me
“I gave your mother a divorce.”
“A real divorce? On paper?”
“Naturally, a real one,” he laughs, “Of course.” Get divorced, the silly old fool. He put an end
To both of their lives in the thickness of hell. Or more precisely, he put an end to the hell in the thick of their lives. Preparing himself for heaven. Informing me about it
When I am on my way home. At ten o’clock at night. Tired of my life. From the plans
Which I cannot bring off. From the thoughts about an unclear future.
He laughs at my tiredness and understands as well. I’m just rolling with the joke.
“But I know what you feel,” he said. And in a way that doesn’t fit him he asked,
“Call me later.” He put the phone down. He doesn’t bother me with things.
He left me shocked by his courage. Saves the screaming. The loud, impassioned vagueness.
Not complaining anymore about the whole world and especially about his wife. That’s it.
He calms down as a man at the end of his life. She is not already. So he is quiet.
He receives judgment. Surrenders. Arranges his future as a deceased person. Doesn’t leave a widow
After him. He diminishes his power and parachutes to his place inside
A scribbled painting.
Basquiat is dead from drugs. He will die from the mess. It is his end. They will not bury
One near the other. They banished each other’s place. That is final. Now
All the will is anchored in accordance with law and custom. At least
They freed the way. They put the key
On the step.
Michaeli is the nonconformist of Israeli poetry, daring to shout what others were ashamed to think, became a symbol of rebellion and anti-establishment. Even now, when she learns foreign languages, is invited to participate in international poetry festivals all over the world and wins international awards, she refuses to screw with the Israeli mainstream. She maintains her status as a solo poet. The Israeli political poems "Mr. Prime Minister" (2009) and "Democracy" (2016) alongside universal poems like "Paint me ablaze" and "Every time we make love" show the layers of her poetry. The intra-poetic, personal, interpersonal and human dialogue is the how and what of her writing. This is an attempt to build bridges in impossible places. "The poetry of Lali Michaeli once again proves that excellent poetry can also be sexy and innovative." - Dory Manor