Noach

And when the rain finally stopped
its absence was noted
in the sounds once blotted out
by the never ending downpour

And when the grapes could finally
be pressed into wine
it wasn’t the animal stench
or the bleating of their never ending sex
he hoped to drink away

But the memory of an empty
sky and the indifferent slaps
of waves against the ark

Once Again Yom Kippur 

The high priest enters the Holy of Holies
Musty and dense – smaller than he remembers

But every year he thinks it’s smaller
The singing and bustle are muffled and far

He stops and listens to the delicate ring
Of bells on the fringe of his coat

And a few seconds later they also stop
It’s the first time in days that he’s alone

Yoni Hammer-Kossoy has been writing poems and telling stories in some form or another for as long as he can remember. Born and bred in Brooklyn, New York, he now lives in Jerusalem, Israel with his wife and three kids. He tweets generally clever things at @whichofawind.