Ladder of Angels
llana Kurshan
I never got there first, although I tried.
I’m always playing catch up, wait for me.
Kid brother. Butt of inside jokes. Inside,
Is where I always am. While he roams free.
They called him Hairy. I was just called Heel,
They named me that because I came out last.
Of course. Achilles’ heel. End piece of bread.
No wonder, when I could, I ran so fast.
Once far from home, I made a life instead,
Where no one knew from Hairy. I was strong!
I lifted stones off wells, I got the girl,
I managed flocks, got rich, and stayed for long.
I’ve left that joint. I’m on the road again,
They say that Hairy’s coming. Am I scared?
The past is never past. I can’t let go.
My brother has no clue ‘bout how I fared.
And then: A river crossing. Dead of night.
A skirmish with an angel. Now my thigh.
“Just let me go,” he gasped through gritted teeth.
He couldn’t break away. I watched him try.
“So what’s your name?” he asked. I told him, “Heel.”
He shook his head. “No way,” he laughed. “Get real.”
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The Talmud teaches that the Torah was given in black fire on white fire (Y. Shekalim 6:1). The black fire is the letters of the Torah scroll, and the white fire is the parchment background. In this column, consisting of a poem on each parashah, I will try to illuminate the white fire of Torah – the midrashim, stories, and interpretations that carve out the negative space of the letters and give them shape.
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