Do not make me forget you.

I am a whisper

a beautiful whisper

and I speak prayers

or nothings to my own


and my mother ignores

how I sound

Because if she were to

listen I

would be


“He is without order”

is written in some person’s book

to describe the openness

of glass as it covers

every inch

of your face.

Even when the glass looks like skin

your hands and your fingers cannot

wipe your tears

without falling from your body.

I see you and I cannot breathe

And being is more fruitful

than not being


Your hands on my plate

My fullness in the wind

I read Rumi

I sigh

I breathe




with all of you


from your toes to your spine

and your eyes


for the ones

that cannot be


and know you

are loved

אהבה או זהב?

אהבה או זהב?

‎‎תן לי את הזהב שלך

במשפחה שלי הזהב חי בארון
‎בארון הקטן שאף אחד לא יודע איפה הוא
‎‏הארון הזה מלא זהב
‎ובנינו את הארון
ושמנו בו זהב כל יום במשך שנים
‎חשבנו שנהיה שמחים עם הזהב שלנו
‎אבל אף אחד לא יודע לאן הארון נעלם

‎תן לי את האהבה שלך

Do not leave me,

a sound in the cave

I hear whispers on my way

Find me here

But who do you cry for?

Is your brokenness


How quickly does it leave you?

My mother told me

to stop searching,

stay where you are.

I am being chased

on my way to here.

You are made of me.

Combed out angel hair.

Gold and brown.

Argan oil.

A cry.

A sparkle.

Red nails

against the doorknob.

Tell me,

how did

your beauty

find you?

Colors of Our Land

Colors of Our Land

Pink and honey, and gold and soft colors, and black and cream and white, and roses and pastels and red, and blues of water, blues of eyes, and blues of our flag.


Of your self?

I separated you from any self

No one knows what what their sister


She is azure

and alive


I cannot pray for more

My prayer is to cure

with gratitude


No one

asks the smiling man

where he goes to sleep

If I never returned to you

to myself

we would drink the ocean

from separate sides of it

crying a siren song

For hours the candle pulled in light. And from where we stood it shimmered like gold. A poem to you is not a poem for you. I write small revolutions, but the paper and the pen soften my fingers.