Hen House

We nursed the runt to life squeezing drops of medicine into her gullet, dabbing peroxide under a bloody wing. She soothed herself by roosting, clutching eggs under her breast, eggs that were not hers. Again, feathers spread across the yard white like a dusting of

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Coffee Talk

            We sit across the table in desolate Tel Aviv hushed under the swollen canopy of paranoia, after another day tired of intensity or intensely tired. The enchanting greenness of your eyes like olives soak in the ferment of tears.

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THE BALCONY

As if crawling naked out of the bottom of a clay bowl sunken in the dry heat of the Samarian wadi I’ve been forced out of your bedroom the last seven nights in search for movement of air. The ink-black clouds move over making room

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