today I went crazy
with the feeling that I’m not meant:
my bath became the sea and I tried to have an awakening
batten down the hatches, this was a storm,
and there’s water filling the ship accompanying me down
rain got into my ears filling the back of my throat
sending bitter foamy waves up and out
trembly, frightened to face the expanse without a night sky above –
teeth and nails sawed through my sister’s abandoned pillow,
a brief moment to ponder that the feathers are multicolored.
wispy snow softly, one inch thick, will stick
one by one I tore pages from a book about women
of no importance, ideal husbands, lies and also truth
I lay down in my nest
asking if anyone is my mother and if she knows
why I am still here, what is wrong with me?
neck and limbs of a dusty health class mannequin – leaning,
rolling and heaving to woman-made post-mortem sighs bangs whimpers
away from things like sun and hindsight
dry storm hardened feet and knees tucked elsewhere beneath towels and coats
unable to bear the warmth of the bed I made, lie in it
I cried into the floor, mouthed sorry to the downstairs neighbor.
Avi-Yona Israel is a writer living in Chicago, IL. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in The Emerson Review, The Seventh Wave, Esthetic Apostle, Capulet Magazine, Cathexis Northwest Press, and midnight & indigo, among others.
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