This city is

red brick and rugged

fine art, portraits and public alleys, 

Whole Foods graffiti and museum dispensaries, 

sardine cars huddled and cooling—

Your feet say, 

Rest, I’ll take it from here. 


This city is

walkways and welcome signs

hung low and dented

by passerby trucks, 

a bumper’s jostle and a joke—

Maybe I’m thin enough to make it through. 


This city is

twenty-seven floors and Gothic arches, 

altar bells and baseball bat cracks

from Red Sox wannabes—

No reservations, but we’ll find you a seat. 


This city: 

catalogs stories 

between the crimson tiles of its make-up; 

records the setting day’s motion

in the oscillations of a porch swing, 

is awed by the way 

histories rub shoulders

after dinner in the evening.

Bad Dreams

Morning’s breath 

snakes down my craned neck, 

a crisp swirl

of whispers ashen and remnant

cloud and coagulate

alongside my clavicle, 

the hush of early-today 

sticky warm 

and sickly sweet 

with dream ramblings

that wriggled between unbrushed teeth

their stories dig cavities, 

soil crowns. 


I feel 

sunrise gossip 

build cumulus clouds

under my chin

threatening, pulsing, 

its promise of storm—

a noose lifts me 

to a wakening sky. 

I watch the day turn 

between gradients of grey. 

I can’t do that.

(a blackout poem)

I stayed home

working against progress, 

I said nothing. 


I expect


tightening my veiny hands. 


Fight back. 


The spine 

I probably didn’t even have. 




Years I had 

opportunities to learn, desire. 

Building muscle alone. 

I pressed play. 


It doesn’t compete anymore. 




I, in the living room.  

A Spirit Heist

My front lawn has ghost tracks

toeprint indents from phantom feet 

and limbs, a remembrance—

Ding-dong ditched and vanished

in poltergeist play,  

veered diagonal from front door 

to cul-de-sac, 

off the pathway we tiled

for propper disappearing acts. 


A presence left his impression 

in landscaped lines. 


A street-facing spirit, 

a front garden ghoul. 

Here, and then gone—

His memory turned our mulch. 


Did our perennials catch 

under his toenails,

a nursery relic he collects 

from one trespassing to the next? 

Brooklyn Bridge

Lives I watch 

from this twenty-second story 

are yoga mats on adjacent rooftops, 

sprawled, sweat-drenched and pollen-dusted

8 AM Thursday flow

to a playlist of Brooklyn traffic

her body elastic, a figurine from where I peer, 

stretching into a workday morning 

a bridge, 

a salutation. 


From this twenty-second story, 

limbs rush 

to catch trains to downtown

or friends a block down 

or rush for the rushing,

this New York thrill, 

these high-gear streets. 

Bodies and buses 

rev to match a city’s pace

kinetic energy from underground trains 

quake the pavement, 

spur the wheels of a city bike 

into forward motion. 


I feel it in my toes, from this twenty-second story. 


Watching lives in the way 

morning dew glistens on concrete,

and lives in terrace gardens, plastic grass, 

lives in bulldozers, 

lives in upward dogs and dogs on leashes, 

panting in pace

with their master’s jogs, 


lives in the buildings at eye-level 

clandestine behind fog. 


A girl on the twenty-something floor

peers out of her bedroom window, 

imagining through the clouds, 

thinking of me. 

My Mother’s Name (A Response Poem)

My mother’s name

resides curbside

somewhere between the streets 

of 1960s Tel Aviv. 


Its childhood coo 

a sweet sound, 

its short legs swinging

playful above Rematachayal sidewalks, 

perched on Aba’s porch chair

pulled closed to the street

to watch the children play 

and wave to neighbors 

strolling from Shul to Shabbat




My mother’s name, 

created and cultivated 

in the Moledet

its singsong vowels 

formed first on my Savta’s mouth, 

kissed into my mother’s forehead, 

indenting her third eye with a namesake


an outward view of her homestead




My mother’s name

was and is

in childhood prayers

and a family of four sisters, 

in the hallways of a neighborhood grade school 

and between windows of a neighbor’s lost love. 


Her name is in the Yom Kippur War

and her Ima’s orange peel candies.

Her name is in evenings dancing

and hair rollers shared with her sisters,

and on a bus with Yochanan across the aisle

he, a silent soldier, 

she, a collection of stories 

chanted in high pitch memories. 


My mother’s name

is preserved in a promise 

of her homecoming

oh joy, oh peace, 

oh Ednale

return to the Motherland, 

return to your mother tongue 

where your name 

is uttered so purely, 

this, a pledge 

to retrace your steps 

and gather the consonants of your name

you left behind. 

Edna (Translation)

by Edna Levy Green, translated by Talia Green


My name, 

a gift from my birth

by parents who blessed its life

My name, 

that I’ve grown into

and grown with, 

my name in my hands. 

My name, loved 

by those who loved me

and I deserted, 

the name 

I let slip from my hands. 


Edna, oh Ednale

oh joy, oh peace. 

Without regretful pause, 

without hesitation, 

without a backward glance

it fell, my name

so long, I moved forward, steadfast. 


And now, I swear, 

for youI return. 


Return to my name, 

return to the Moledat

a homecoming, 

over my shoulder and steps toward

my Motherland, 

my name I left behind. 

When the Ceiling Falls

What art can we make 

from our wreckage,

Our astringent rubble? 

Pebbles have rattled loose 

from our ceiling 

under battering from 

an overhead storm—

they precipitate in shapes, 

hail in abstract form, 

configure in sharp lines 

on our living room floor. 

Debris, dislodged 

from our rooftop

and settled again 

at our feet in off-octagons.

Bewitching asymmetry, 

our destruction. 


Pebbles pose, 

and we pose, 

our shadows manipulate 

the lighting above our display, 

shade our angular spaces, 

smoothing the raised lines 

of the ceiling tile 

accrued by our sockless feet.


Think of the constellations—

Yankee candles and their geometrics. 

Their flickers at funny angles, 

too removed from our mouths 

to be hampered by our giggling. 

Our spit doesn’t go that far. 


Think of the constellations—

Don’t think of the stars, 

think of the sew lines between them. 

Sweater threads, 

loose and frayed, 

but looping each amber spec,

knotting their form to its gauze, to each other. 

Buttons across charcoal cotton. 

They warm us on November nights. 


Think of—


candles and buttons, 

giggles and borrowed sweaters, 

chilly toes and funny angles. 

We sit on the in-between lines, 

our legs swinging between constellations 

unbothered by the winds back on Earth. 

Trees in October

Are you desolate or free,

shedding parts of yourself?

Clutching your canopy 

until its vibrancy dulled 

into sleepy amber, 

until its luscious frame

withered to papyrus scraps,

until its grip fatigued, 

and, to your canopy, 

the ground looked so wistful, 

heaps of its counterparts 

huddled together in rest. 


Who let go first, 

you or your leaves? 


It must be this loss

that scrapes rings into your base,

a wrinkle for a summer in passing–

each ridge, a memorial 

for the self you had 

let fragment and fall. 


What mournfulness you must feel, 

a body to withstand seasons 

and bearings that wither

once the air grows cold.