by | June 3, 2021

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.