“But what else
can a mother give her daughter but such
beautiful rifts in time?”
- Eavan Boland, “The Pomegranate”
It was years ago that she clung to a blonde boy
in a Nachlaot slum,
since she ate sunflower seeds
and forgot to notice the bitter taste.
He would strum Bob Dylan on a ukelele, and she didn't
think twice about stretching out
over the sheets
and offering herself as an afternoon sacrifice
about to go up in smoke.
I went to Jerusalem, like her,
running toward a different unhappiness.
I have kept a man,
not her rotation of phone numbers,
or neighborhoods as the years passed.
And though I would never want to jump
and break, as she did, like a tree cracking in two,
I know a twig inside me
has already snapped.