I am the great-grandson of Moses,
several times removed.
When I wandered through the Negev,
I paid perhaps more attention to
the red-striped rock and curved horizon,
the diesel stops and upside-down highway.
The two tablets lie,
faithfully cracked,
on my nighttable next to a box of Kleenex,
proof of some strange inheritance or journey.
And when I wander the autumn coasts of this country,
when I kick a pebble loose from a paved sidewalk,
and when the water pours forth between my toes,
when it weeps through my sand-cracked-open-toed sandals,
squeezed from the core of pavement,
I know that my punishment will be more ambiguous.
 
Reuben Silberman is a sophomore in Morse College.