Jerusalem Candy, 1948
Imagine the Light Shining Everything False
Before my friend flies to Turkey, she texts, I heard there’s a war. Are they fighting your
people again? I should respond, you won’t see the bones of intellectuals, they’ve
become skyscrapers. Instead, I say, try the manti soup. The broth is bloodless.
I wear a bra but wouldn’t speak Armenian in Istanbul. Before he met me, my husband
backpacked through the Taurus Mountains with a braless woman. Bras aren’t restrictive
when they remind you to breathe.
When I despair, I eat za’atar bread. It reminds me of my family who drifts into
Armenian on the phone. Once I brought up Azerbaijan in the lunchroom, but no
one wanted to talk about it. Last week, 135 Armenians killed. I’m not counting.
Jerusalem Toys, May 1948
The House in Jerusalem
Sipping Silence
There is something about having a parent
who is not of this world. And by world,
I mean the U.S., which to itself is the world.
But is not the world. Except to a father
whose house is dynamited in Palestine.
Ref u gee
A plea take me take me
Who will sponsor you in the States?
And now a word from our sponsors.
At least abortion is still legal in Armenia.
Take that Arkansas.
Next time I get pregnant, only a 19-hour flight,
and I can practice my father’s tongue
and sample manti soup while I’m there.
Don’t think I’m not grateful. Don’t get
your passport in a tizzy. I need two—
one to visit my uncle in Lebanon, one
to visit my grandparents’ graves in Israel,
at least until the Armenian Cemetery
become a Prada store. Last time, I asked
the Israeli border guard not to stamp
my passport, he pressed the plunger down,
the ink wet when he passed it back.
My father is accented but I didn’t know
until I was 40. He sounds like my father.
