The day you left was the Ninth of Av,
a day of grief, the Temple destroyed.
The day you left was the Ninth of Av,
it fell on Shabbat, the heavens gave us
a bonus day of joy, and we made love
in a palace of time on the Ninth of Av,
on what seemed then the year’s hottest day.
Your sweat dripped into my eyes
like tears fall into a goblet of wine.
The decree was sealed. You said goodbye.
On the Tenth of Av, the temperature rose
even higher. Uprooted and thirsty,
I knew I would never forget your heart
beat inside me, the texture of your skin.
I would always feel your life
imprinted on mine; from afar
I would long for your shelter,
your untouchable touch,
lost, removed from my hands, forbidden.
I knew I was a widow
before I became a bride.
Julia Knobloch is a TV journalist turned translator, project manager and emerging poet. She was awarded the 2016 Poem of the Year prize from Brooklyn Poets. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Green Mountains Review, Yes, Poetry Magazine and Luna Luna Magazine.
