by Hadara Bar-Nadav



I live with an oven.

A heavy weight.


I set the timer, skim

its caked corners,


wobble near faint

when considering a square.


Entry. Exit. Door

to nowhere.


Memory framed

by double-paned glass


so I can see the stream

of blue flames caving


the roof of my mouth.


The hiss of history

ablates my face, blisters


my tongue and my name,

numbers me among millions.


I crackle as a leaf.


An entire epoch turned                                                             

its face, then washed


its hands for dinner

on an ordinary day.


Who set the table

in silver and lace.


Who opened

the door then closed it.