print previewback HENRY ISRAELI
Between the Trees
When he was a boy my father lived in
a forest for two years, perpetually
hungry, men with rifles setting out each
day to hunt him and my grandfather
who, whether from sheer luck or sharp instincts,
somehow escaped the firing squad.
Now my father lives in a forest again,
rolling cigarettes out of dried leaves
for his father. They walk together
without fear or cold or hunger,
my father holding his little sisters’ hands.
They are still young girls, never aging,
their clothing never torn apart by
the bullets that passed through them. 
Between the Trees
Pain Is Never Done
So Many Promises