I am writing here, now, reflecting on what was there, then, with the hope of furthering that experiment by recording my experience and sharing it with you.
“…my apartment is full of tables; I have at my disposal a table in the bedroom, in the living room and on the balcony; the more tables, the more sorcery.”
In the middle of this, I also left behind / my mother, forty-six years old, / still menstruating, still falling in love, / her long hair gathered in a sloppy hair pin, / making family dinners
“Ars Poetica was for the release of Mizrahi anger, on the cutting edge, about speaking back. Poetry wasn’t ten people in a library anymore. Ars Poetica was built on Facebook, it was like a stadium.”
[Jerusalem is] the only place I’ve lived where my contact with other writers, artists, and journalists naturally crosses back and forth from professional to mundane matters.
All in all I’m a worn-out dog living between volcanic mountains / that God created for her, circling in silence / after nothing but to talk to talk to talk to talk …
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