legs, but though I was curious,
I allowed myself to be adjusted
to her inverted triangle shape

with no questions. I kept them stashed.
The Jerusalem heat peeled off my sweat
and the first pearls dripped down my new back.

This tongue can say son-of-a-whore
with perfect clarity and confidence,
but somehow still doesn’t know Hebrew—

the guttural words always caught
in my strawberry-smooth throat, and I find
I’m quietly hoping that I can

to fit this oversized skin-suit,
please let my throat remember how to sing.
Girl or woman, I don’t have much else.

When it was over and we could
fold Israel into a suitcase with
our olive oil cream and hamsas,

my voice was waiting for me like
how a lover will always remain to
collect the one who had pined for him

in her absence. Girl or woman,
I can sing. With crooked fingers and curved
spine, my throat is still strawberry-smooth.