Sliding the statue

I break the statue, your favorite-
a woman of full white marble, grapes dangling to her lush lips
you wash it with the back of your hand, like it is nothing
sweep around the dust, it is normal
the joy of destruction teaches me
to drag my feet,  after the words repeat themselves,
a beehive on a tree
guilt

I carry inside of me
a stone-weighing head,
a loud drum for a heart
and the statues arms, the other cavities
I shove with my foot beneath the carpet
I'll bury the crumples in the garden, a proper disposal

the life of a statue ends when mine stars
the arms nudge me, porcelain with long, lean fingers
if I were to fall, the stone will catch me
still- I am scared of choices, I admit
each time I choose, I realize I will
make way for one option to rule
I am weary of choice but each time I turn back
I see broken arms, dismantled and a woman who loses her head
rolling on the floor

I am haunted by my dread
words repeating in my head,
you approach me with the same haughty carelessness
you sweep the statues that keep breaking since
as long as you don't break things that cannot be restored, things dutifully not yours
you say. perhaps you are right
this is why I shouldn't be scared of my choices
not everything brings along guilt-
but that's the nature of children
they first embrace rebellion
then slide into regret.

When you seek me

If you've come here expecting Ka'ek,
then know I am a failed baker
I acquired enough skills to get by
purchase bread out of nylon bags and forget
the touch needed to acquaint myself with the dough
formation of crushed wheat, oil and salt.

If you've come here seeking a clean house,
then know I am an artist,
the paint-can drips blotches of color over my sheets
there's always a spare pen and empty sheets of papers for words
be wary of my sleep cycle and art cycle-
Don't approach my desks, let your skin fade from mine when
I'm in the mood.

If you've come here reaching for a child,
then forget the coloring pencils hidden for white days
the lollipops of the midnight hunger and the voice that refuses
to scream in labor starting too early for other children-
cute as a button, rounded up to responsibilities of
feed and teach and get by again.

If you've come here because you find no place
to rest your shoulders, know I am not a mattress
I have long stopped giving comfort to the walls
I do not handle the cold surfaces well.

If you've come here to just seek me,
then you just need a soft knock on the door
before you hear me whisper
enter.



This is Ka'ek, substitute for bread, delicious in all occasions-

Busy

leaving the dishes in the sink,
the time to call a friend, we disguise
wear busy as a freedom-
an excuse we make
to avoid engagement with the exhaustion of being present

Give, without hurting

Mother said I can give without hurting myself
so when my friend fell into the season's first puddle
I gave him my jumper and marched in the rain

later, the smell of food made my colleague hungry
so I split my sandwich
then filled my stomach with rain water to quiet

afterwards, lipstick pens, coins, and time flew
I handed over to my friends some things I didn't have myself
saved them the foul rush of fortune

one day, over coffee I donated
a portion of my heart to a boy
who turned man when I touched him,
boy by shadow-fall, he turned the turnstiles on the future

when I saw the girl who tortured the days
A hug was all I possessed, my  enemy received
on her way to the toilet a wish for happier days

Mother said I can give without hurting
if I knew how to give myself
what I easily lose for others.

Clarity by the river

Maybe if you give up experience
you will adhere to more than generics
like learning to be a tear in an ocean
independent, dissolving into clarity
while maintaining her own head-
it isn't an impossible fact: discard what you know
you will end up somewhere beautiful.

This is what you give me as an advice
funny before I know the thoughts are climbing you
I find my ideal spot, barefoot, on a tree branch
one foot in the river, the other in a book
I find beauty as I seek it
when I have the chance.

chain of thought

In the garden, above the frost hops a bird,
a magpie, black, blue and white-
he who steals shiny metal, would he take my old golden ring
to use as a decoration for nesting?
I wonder, does he have children, other little magpies
do they have enough worms?
dirt and worm, sun and warmth.. isn't that enough?
my selfish being, must I clean the garden,
take out the weed and the wheat along, a thief I've become too
 Have I mowed over his last meal for the day?
They say magpies alone, bring sorrow
in couples, bring joy, what if unlike storks magpies cannot hold
on abstract concepts,nor babies,
nothing but glimmer and packed rays of sunshine
maybe the weight of abstracts is too much..

do the birds ever tire from their flights?
if these questions fall with the speed of light in my head,
then they are just thoughts.

Leftover kiss

Half a beard dipped into alcohol
half the lips glazed with cherry red
and the hall sends eyes and ears to the
movement of the lips,
an extensions of a leftover kiss