in the migrations of red carnations where songs burst from long-beaked birds and apples rot before the disaster where women fondle their breasts and touch their sex in the sweat of rice powder and teatime vines of passionflowers course through that which stays the...
Rabbi of condiments, whose breath is a verb, wearing a thin beard and a white robe; you who are pale and small and shaped like a fist, a synagogue, bless our bitterness, transcend the kitchen to sweeten death— our wax in the flame and our seed in the bread.
An extremely hubristic, unflattering, and accurate self-portrait, this episode saw Halberg in direct conversa- tion with Cain, questioning his own methods. The passing allusion to Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin appears to reference Chapter 4, stanza XXXV: “But I myself read my bedizened /fancies,...
A prowler in the mansion of my blood! I have not seen him, but I know his signs. Sometimes I hear him meddling with my food, Or in the cellar, poisoning my wines, —
For the lead player, for the Korahites, on the alamoth a song. God is a shelter and strength for us, a help in straits, readily found. Therefore we fear not when the earth breaks apart, when mountains collapse in the heart of the seas. Its waters...
Violation Wildflowered up the dreams of my captors, Decorous men, half-moon bedded in my bloodstream. The object is without objection. It was said Such knowledge sharpened the Garden’s blurred shush. The serpent also whispered in the field. Abandon, the house of the lord, is Abandoned. Its painted...
There is a cistern on the synagogue’s roof and a drain pipe in the wall leading to a small basement pool. There are two witnesses, a rabbi and one not-yet-Jew.
Fucked art thou, with luck, o reader within the palace within the palette within the impatience within, who tilts his letters into the light of the mind’s muttering unto itself, releasing their sounds to the whirlpool fierce of an ear...
The Queen of Sheba packed fenugreek, turmeric, milled cardamom, desiccated coconut, sweet almond oil, figs, fat amber dates, green lemons, and mint, onto a dozen knobbly camels. Let’s see, Poetaster, how your sinuses like these! Her eyes lit up like a clutch of desert sunrises. Hessian, leather, cedarwood...
In a new translator’s version of Genesis, there’s no Adam. No serpent. In paradise, I don’t bleed. Fig leaf-free girl, dear God, I say as we converse fluently without tongues, joined as two spice-drenched beloveds in a song of songs, could we please ask...
Yael picks at their cuticles. When they speak to themself, they speak out loud. They speak to themself this morning. I think, they say, that I am coming down with wisteria. Their nail beds a bit purplish.
After a funeral, they were covered with black cloth, some draped with shawls like a scalloped valance. Leftover sewing scraps, wool, linen, synthetic, anything to shroud the odd-shaped mirrors, though sometimes a corner was exposed like a woman whose ankle peeks forbidden from under a...