Translated by Gili Haimovich
When I was a bird
I was a Honey Sucker
there’s no such thing
as too sweet
little and quick
once here and once different
in a wondrous metabolism
it was impossible to catch me
The equator of my belly
is the equator of my daughter
and of my life.
a new symmetry of conscious
With every suckle my heart asks
In what you’re alike?
In what you’re apart?
Where the Wild Things Are
the big hunter of dreams.
Curly curls to her head
and in her rucksack the arrows of all possibilities.
Her big shut eyes, see better than my eyes.
At night she droops from my hand
to wild things land
new things are happening to her
in a place where I can’t come in anymore.
A mother with child
my soft belly
from the day of your birth I’m exposed
walking behind you, in a shade’s distance
to watch myself from
what might happen to you.
my well being is not in my hands
but in your little feet
in your too hasty body.
Knifes are everywhere
and your skin is soft and forced
There’s no good place to bury
My empty belly asks
of you, of what the world is causing
you that you don’t tell.
And at night time, in the softness of your hair on the pillow
I choke with mercy
there’s not enough strength in me to avert
It bound to come and touch you
and maybe you’re better it would.
Shira, with Linguistic Stress
(Shira is a feminine given name of Hebrew origin meaning “poetry” or “singing”.)
My retarded strange daughter
that I accidentally gave birth to
in the street or in a dream when I was
in my dangerous days.
Chubby and chatty
She wanders around the rooms in the house
touching things climbing
to the window and falling on the floor.
She wants to come to light.
In the street, when she watches the other girls
primped as coming attraction
She hides behind me
and I’m ashamed of her.
The world’s blinks
are needles up to scratch the skin.
You must love her
I tell myself at night
as is, with all of her flaws
you are her mother
and I’m incapable.
We stay to watch them
in their sleep
the day dimmed off slowly followed by the night, moon
is full, filling up as if on its own in the balcony
from a safety distance
we speak in front of a screen
as tossing a ball in front of a wall.
Short questions and short answers
So we won’t get tempted to try.
Sometimes when I’m overflowing
it seems that the walls are scratched by longing.
The laundry machine is running up speed and feverish abyss.
I come out the moonish exposed
and transmitting to you with all strength
After Ten Years
You leave the room, shut the door
I’m opening up
how good it is to be left behind
to slough the burden of minimal required communication.
To leave my aloneness without your aloneness without
our loaded aloneness
that digs deeper and further.
A relief without knowing you were expecting it
like when suddenly the rattled breath of the air conditioner stops
like at the end of the day when the bra’s hook is opened.