Poetry

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

My grandfather often looked after me as a child. In our play, I propped him up like an immense boy with a lazy heart as he climbed onto a wooden chair. His crooked fingers—splintered tips, rough skin from years of handling steel, dipped into pencil

            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.

Tanya is late to class again. Dragging Ruthy’s pudgy hand she lifts her onto a chair feet swaying like dreamy bells, shoes chunky with mud. The whole room rings with Ruthy’s soft tune as a triad of white paper dolls kiss and twirl like mystics