Fifteen blue stairs to Morocco Cafe,
an Israeli garden of chairs, neat array
of white tables and napkins,
the green-aproned girl who walks home
after closing.
The green-aproned girl came here from
Tashkent through the Turkestan mountains.
Her brother the chemist still calls her
Miss Shtern, his Galina, but here
she is Galit and here speaks no Russian.
At Morocco Cafe once she lifted
her lashes and the green awnings
lifted their lashes wide
for one moment of billowing cloth
high on the hips of this town
of Beersheva
Her hands on her apron,
her eyes, her face shy as the roof
rose to bosom the warm-chested sky:
ripple of western canvas
and breeze, for Galina one
widening ripple of canvas and breeze.