to find myself not-woman is an incantation of garlic. in every cactus i carve my mother’s name. boundaries and blossoms, the caw of a crow. a dog eats my bike shorts. i curse 9 lives. in masafer yatta, stolen tents and battered pipelines. utopia and dystopia are mangled kite string.
i want to be satisfiable, i tell my lover.
to receive care from the plum tree, to attend to the pussy willow. to wash my cancer-weary frame in a rusted bathtub caked with mold. to dawn the fire of contentment.
place a kumquat in the hands of Jerusalem: something round, something small to tear at for pith.