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We ate apples dipped in honey. Free admission
to the sweet and happy years. Mira from Nepal
understood when we talked about indulgence, income tax and chopped  liver.
Today I reminisced about my children a lot, she said in Hebrew,
which came through her slowly like hot water descending
to a shower on the first floor. At her age I'm not a mother,
I don't nurse my children in the distant apartments of elderly people
in order to develop like a country. Foreign exchange rates aren't gates
which close or open onto a lost paradise. I easily might know less,
believe in the absence of choice, suspend my life between one break and another.
The apples aren't sweet at all. Honey, insulted by the air, crystallizes like wet sand.
Someone locked a big sad parrot inside his porch.
We promised to come at night and set it free,
its eyes too ashamed
to whistle slavery’s tunes at the city.

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FREE ADMISSION