not ch like chocolate / the kind of ch that gets stuck
in the back of the throat & stops you
from crying / the kind you throw together
once a year / but like the moon it never sets / and stays behind
& washes up / i wonder how many miles per hour
do her daydreams go / roughly / when she places her ring
on the counter / do they fall asleep on the wheel and land
up in this poem / or does she crash into her first kiss when she’s peeling
the pink ladies & suddenly there’s nothing left /
and when she smooths down her apron does she catch
her flat chest & feeling nineteen again / the parting seas, the calendars
of new year’s eves / everything to lose / does it hurt to know the recipe
off by heart now, to fold in the dry fruit like a face burying itself
into softness / & sleeping there / some things are easier to pass over,
like what we badly want / & the keys for a different song
i heard once / and some doors we are always softly knocking on
but like the fridge they must be closed at a stroke / before something melts
away / when my clay pot cracked inside the oven, she broke
the news / like laughter / her hands
were shaking / i cried / it was meant for you / for
when an evening hardens on its own / & this night is not different
from all other nights / for whom does she make pyramids of napkins / is it
for the children / or just out of chutzpah / you take it
with matzah / & bitterness / and it tastes
of the first glimpse of an old city / & a wall / & everything
you would write into its cracks / it tastes like
next year in jerusalem! / & everything else you would say
to god, if you could / i think it means
this can’t be a broken home / no / this /
can’t be it∎
Words by Kate Greenberg. Art by Bee Eveleigh-Evans.
