Poetry
Hadara Bar-Nadav
No Sea Inside
The shells come without their soft souls,
golden green and pupil small.
Slip them into your pocket and walk around all day.
They will talk to the lint, to the nickels and string.
They will sound like eggs shells burning in the drier.
They will smell like egg shells burning in the drier.
The clothes are disheveled without their bodies,
sleeves sniffling after the echo of wrists.
The triangles of a thong weep in confusion,
cry to the God of Useless Geometry:
Where are we?
What direction is this?
No sea inside, no body, no heat.
Shapes lonely without muscled desire.
Only the memory and casing remain.
Only this small clicking of teeth.
Blind Fragment
They wore strange faces.
No, they were nurses
spun in gauze dresses,
shadows of their legs
beneath, and another
(buttonless) who held
my wrist and nodded,
but touch is touch
full of feeling and skin
so I thought
I recognized each
of them hello, hello
so none of us was alone
as my bowels groaned
and I slipped through
my mouth, beyond
the window outside,
and clung to a cypress,
its funnel of green,
so I could watch us
a little while more,
but the drift in the wind
was warm, a yawn
pulling me upwards
in strings