To Mother Israel:

The space between us arid and vomit-yellow the way I would imagine sand looks
for days on end if its all you ever see

matching our very own baby-poop colored llama-

on a ride. Birth-right Israel. Summer 2006.

body in my old lover’s arms there,
thin and resentful in the face
of my relentless loud resistance
that some might call

complaining

indigestible Zionism
put on our plates day after day with hummus and instant coffee and olives

as bitter and salty as my cheeks
as watery as my intestines

Somewhere between Tel-aviv and Palestine

Was the ‘I love Israel’ amphitheater
With its wealthy American Jewish kids getting drunk

Having climbed on top of the glorious backs of the gray-green army tanks that brought us

Safety in these borders

We have it all now, don’t we?

His arms became large with the expanse of the crowd--
amidst the cacophony and collision
Waves broke inside me right there in the middle
Pounding in my forehead: Beer and tanks. Beer and tanks. Beer and tanks.

Water and questions
“What is there to celebrate within this scent of unjustified death circling?"

There was no cover here
Everything exposed: desert

His long curls waved in the wind and he held my hand as we walked through the crowds
not readily parting for us

Our wandering ceased through following
a distant sound of drumming

A small circle voices almost drowned
India white shirts glistened in the sunlight against long black locks
I was offered a drum and took it
pericardium pulse met my sacrum my hands
and the surrounding countries

When the real show began we could no longer hear ourselves
Yet I held the beat close in the drunken girls toilet-paperless bathroom

On the bus ride and the ensuing days -- Negev mountains

Small stone caverns
where they say mystics lived for days
without end

now deep breathing
is not possible due
to the stench of stale piss
Arabic and Israeli mixed

---

Here I found
some lost corner of my Mother’s belly
Vomit yellow hills, purple thistle-ridden

purple thistle-ridden
purple thistle-ridden
purple thistle-ridden

Slowly I learned to replace my sponge holes with her spikes
My disgust with her

unapologetic expansiveness.

November 2010

Little rare rootlings
split with every wet division
of legs without
sum

After a number of lifetimes the rootling in
its fragmented, momentary ecstasies
dies.

To find itself as a fat tree
Uninterested in temporary pleasure As
nothing
compares to the simple joy of
its being both worlds, and the bridge

Between the two.

Fall, 2005 while getting oil changed

Between his ebony gleam
and the steal dream
of modern mechanics
symmetrical, slender
his gaze
ancient enough to call animal spirits to his arrow

now

pouring neon steering fluid into

another animal
heart, no less bold

Poetry has been a constant in my life since I understood what the word meant. Soon after I learned how to write, my relationship with poetry began. I have my parents to thank for introducing me to this art form at a young age.

I've spent my life scribbling poems hap-haphazardly in various journals, napkins, and the walls of my high school bathroom stalls with sharpies. (Yes, you read that correctly.)

This is my first attempt at organizing and compiling my completed and edited poems in one place. I'll also post poems by other writers that inspire my work and also happen to be juicy little gifts meant for sharing.

Thanks for reading!