I don’t know how to count
the way my mother counts
she counts in different
languages— mostly
in Hebrew, which
I do know, but never
do
I dream in English
though just 12
years ago, I dreamed
in Hebrew
she also counts
in Spanish, and
Arabic
and I never
learned, I
never tried
I never sought
something
different.
Bitter
inside of
my
mouth
you found
the capsule
and swallowed
me whole
death came
so easily
shadows danced
inside my name
repeat me over
the receiver
till dawn.
Doctors give children
a mechanical breath
a slap on the lungs
a swim with a needle
inside the bloodstream
we are all machines
I promise, we are.
Clarity comes within
some say it takes
distance for clarity
to settle
the love of one
grows, though
it aches with
airplanes and
train rides—
miles are only
as far as I’d
count, but
my fingers
measure
distance on
these maps
better than
any calculated
amount.
רחוק מהלוח זמנים
אני לוחמת עם העתיד
המלאך אומר לי
קחי את השמונים
הן שלח
Far away from the calender
I fight with the future
the angel tells me
take the eighties
they are yours.
I counted I.V. drips
in seven hours as
they wheeled warm
bodies in the
hallway
15 gtts/mL with
a flow rate of
80 mL/hr and
it fed everywhere
dry mouth cutting
close edges
inside vocal chords
no voice to say
no to the nurse
as she stepped
inside the bathroom
to help you wipe
clean
no I can
do it on
my own
morphine left
its burn on the
edges of
the metacarpals
and the silly
light gave
nausea a
free ticket
on the express
train up the
esophagus.
All I hoped for
waited inside
a small crack
in the wall
I slipped a
letter there
it went like
this
I wish I
knew G-d
in person
so I could
kill it with
my right
hand
maybe it
would respect
me for death
the way that
it respect
massacres
and numb
feet.
The kids are calm today
The roads are roaring
With personified whores
And cranky fathers
I waved at her carefully
She tried to suck my
Thumb.
I am wind
the small
ache behind
your back
lifting a small
fraction of
your skin
with every
fiber
I am plasma
a river
of life filtering
red inside
I am sand
collecting
inside your
lungs
penetrating
horizons.
I have my father’s legs
and my mother’s waist
she belly danced in her
own wedding and
he ran the base
three, four,
twenty six times
I wonder if I can
climb a mountain
and come down
a goddess—
I have my grandmother’s
fingers— A child of
liberation tapping
her way through
the ghetto—
No. I will never
be what they are.
