now there is a new kitchen

the straps of my tanktop don't stay up for long.
there is too much pointing to do.
my shoulders are in constant use
(but not because you are here,
telling stories loudly;
reaching out for emphasis).

i save up my moments for emails,
but it doesn't come through the same
when there are no interruptions.
the light makes all the edges blurry anyway.

i don't want to out-grow this.
i want the mud on my boots to last forever,
even if i feel out-of-place sometimes.

i haven't figured out yet if i should measure time
in teaspoons or teapots.
either way, i'll spill it all over the floor,
and memories will get mopped up like milk.

eventually, new sandpaper will smooth me out,
and all my corners will fit nicely.
someone else will sit across the table.
when i leave, i won't push the chair back in.

recycled cardboard

i wonder sometimes,
if i hold a sign up reading "home,"
scrawled on the torn off side of
the box your brother's speakers came in,
while standing on someone else's roadside--

boots unlaced,
hair undone,
insides untied--

where i'll end up these days?

it's not my intention anymore,
to figure out where hitchhikers will take me.

just to find home somewhere other than your kitchen table,
or on the extra bicycle your parents got, so visitors could join them on the bike trail at a moment's notice.
or in the extra toothbrush you kept around, or in knowing my favorite tea was always in your cabinet.

i have nightmares sometimes,
that i won't recognize anywhere.

someone's aunt will ask,
"sugar, what have you been up to these days?"
and i will pull my sweatshirt zipper up and down,
hoping that the length of my hair won't give anything away.
you know,
just
here
and there,
this and
that,
i guess.

how to leave

1.

do not start by estimating damages,
contemplating insurance,
wrapping your edges in old newspaper.
there will be enough time
to put furniture polish on your new scratches later.
the moving company promises nothing will break beyond repair.

2.

hold your breath,
and fold up your sweaters.
take off your shoes,
and kiss a boy who won't wait.
who will unbraid the promises in your hair,
and hold your hand until one of you goes.

3.

melt ice cubes on your skin to remind yourself
that once you were the only thing around above freezing.

4.

open your arms
as easily as you opened your passport
when the agent at border control
asked why you were here
at 7 a.m., after thousands of miles,
you adjusted the hem of your last clean shirt
and told the truth:
it was time.

Some things about Haifa

I've been in Haifa for two weeks, which probably deserves some sort of recognition.

Here I am: able to navigate successfully from point A to point B regularly; starting to get good at calculating the exchange rate ($1 = 3 shekels) without thinking too much; sweating more than I've ever sweated before and unable to explain my feelings in Celsius.

There's bigger selection of fruit than I'm used to, but strangers don't smile as much. I've never lived this close to an ocean you can swim in.

I forgot about living in the middle of an alphabet you can't read. Hebrew looks like upside-down music notes, and I can never remember what my receipts are for.

It didn't hit me that I was moving until I made it all the way here, standing in my new room, unpacking all my dresses. And then suddenly it did. Everything I hadn't been thinking about for nine months, all at once.

I haven't been able to figure out which buttons are doorbells and which ones are light switches in the stairwell of my building. I kept ding-dong ditching the neighbors for a while, but now I just feel my way up in the dark.

Two weeks isn't enough to figure anything out. But I know a few things. That there's an Arab bakery a few minutes walk from where I live that's open on Shabat. That "toda" means "thank you" and "rega" means "wait" (and the accompanying hand motions). Which staircases will take me home. The difference between doorbells and light switches will come with time.

I've already used up two bus cards, so I'm well on my way to settling in.

Some things remind me of Amman (the hills everyone calls mountains, the sandstone buildings, the cucumbers stacked in crates outside corner stores), and some things remind me of other places.

I think that's what happens when you move around a lot--wherever you are ends up being an amalgamation of all your previous homes.