Batnadiv HaKarmi, Numbers 11, 2015 (Artist Website)
Ink on paper
The leaves are leaving
as if the soil needs to eat yellow and red
and orange, as if the ground didn't have enough
fire, as if there weren't already a molten belly
in all of us hungry for god hearts and the sheen
of words. Is every hour a feeding hour?
I remember hunger swelling into sunflower.
Upturned and eating husk and seed.
Please was the wellspring of swallow.
I was the between with something living,
refilling, waiting in a room of me.
Was she homesick for the stars?
A billion cells boundless,
exactly perfect and tiny
like a bird. Let's say I gave way,
my body elastic. She into she
we into her, her spilled
into the glossary of born.