One little boy writing a book,
“making pictures for it too,” he said over Zoom,
proud face bright as an apple in my screen.
“It’s about a problem,” he smiled shyly
in that occupied land where soldiers sneak around at night
breaking into houses, chopping olive trees, smashing lamps.
“A problem between spiders and ants.” Well, this sounded
refreshing, a problem not made by humans. He said
spiders and ants each want to dominate their corners,
not letting other species have space. I didn’t quite understand,
since spiders spin high-up webs and ants tunnel in the ground,
but he insisted on friction, something about vicinity.
They want the whole space. I could see stone walls behind him.
Hear his parents speaking Arabic in the background,
a spoon clinking a bowl. I felt homesick for my whole life.
Now he was whispering, other kids listening in,
scattered in villages around the West Bank where my grandma
once lived. I knew exactly what their world looked and
smelled like, and wished to be with them
on that ground, stirring smoky coals in a taboon.
“But there’s something the ants can do,” he went on softly.
“So they don’t all get killed. The spiders are stronger
than the ants, you know. So the ants pretend to be spiders!”
What? How does an ant pretend to be a spider?
He showed reluctance to tell, being still immersed
in the making of his story, but gave a clue.
“It’s an expression on the face. An ant makes his face look like a
spider’s face. For safety. Then they won’t attack.
It’s not that hard.”

For the first month of life, I was 
unnamed. To my Mama, my body belonged 
to one name, and to my Babushka, another, so 

they called me Lyalya, Lyalichka, little 
doll, baby, because neither would bend 
their letters and though I was already known 

to scream, to refuse sleep and strangers, 
they couldn’t have known then how, 
silently, I’d keep screaming, keep refusing 

any name they’d give me, how in my mouth, 
it wouldn’t feel like mine, and on the tongues 
of others, even less like I belonged. 

My mother imagined me maiden, Alyonushka, 
who saves in every fairytale, saves her brother
when he is stolen by Baba Yaga’s wicked swan-geese

and turns him back into a boy when he becomes 
a goatling. Alyonushka, who stays silent
for seven years, sewing twelve sweaters

out of nettles, fingers raw, skinned, only 
to run out of time on the final sleeve, so her youngest 
brother must wear a wing instead of an arm, reminding her 

she’s failed. And in the painting, Alyonushka, 
keeps her eyes cast down on water, her feet 
bare and untouched against coarse stone, she is

meek and docile, alone, she would never leave 
or disobey her mother, so eventually, mine 
admitted this name could not belong to me.

A month before my birth, Dedushka Yuzya 
died, some sudden spell Soviet doctors
connected to his heart because they only knew 

it stopped, and in our people’s way of wearing
our dead, of carrying them along the gumline, 
Babushka named me Yulya, because its sound 

was closest to her love, because two syllables 
are an easier loss to bear, because 
like all our matriarchs, she wanted me named 

for a man none of us could save. How could they 
know such naming would curse us to a life worse 
than a single wing? What if I’d stayed, Lyalya,

from speech and voice, stayed screaming,
how many more of us could have been
saved? How many would have stayed

swan, refusing to give up the sky.  

The sun holds all the earth and all the sky 
From the gold throne of this midsummer day. 
In the soft air the shadow of a sigh
Breathes on the leaves and scarcely makes them sway. 
The wood lies silent in the shimmering heat, 
Save where the insects make a lazy drone, 
And ever and anon from some tree near, 
             A dove’s enamoured moan, 
Or distant rook’s faint cawing harsh and sweet, 
Comes dimly floating to my listening ear.

Right in the wood’s deep heart I lay me down, 
And look up at the sky between the leaves, 
Through delicate lace I see her deep blue gown. 
Across a fern a scarlet spider weaves 
From branch to branch a slender silver thread,
And hangs there shining in the white sunbeams, 
A ruby tremulous on a streak of light. 
            And high above my head 
One spray of honeysuckle sweats and dreams, 
With one wild honey-bee for acolyte.

My nest is all untrod and virginal, 
And virginal the path that led me here, 
For all along the grass grew straight and tall, 
And live things rustled in the thicket near:
And briar rose stretched out to sweet briar rose 
Wild slender arms, and barred the way to me 
With many a flowering arch, rose-pink or white,
            As bending carefully. 
Leaving unbroken all their blossoming bows, 
I passed along, a reverent neophyte.

The air is full of soft imaginings,
They float unseen beneath the hot sunbeams,
Like tired moths on heavy velvet wings.
They droop above my drowsy head like dreams.
The hum of bees, the murmuring of doves.
The soft faint whispering of unnumbered trees.
Mingle with unreal things, and low and deep
            From visionary groves, 
Imagined lutes make voiceless harmonies. 
And false flutes sigh before the gates of sleep.

O rare sweet hour! O cup of golden wine! 
The night of these my days is dull and dense, 
And stars are few, be this the anodyne!
Of many woes the perfect recompense.
I thought that I had lost for evermore
The sense of this ethereal drunkenness, 
This fierce desire to live, to breathe, to be;
            But even now, no less 
Than in the merry noon that danced before 
My tedious night, I taste its ecstasy.

Taste, and remember all the summer days 
That lie, like golden reflections in the lake 
Of vanished years, unreal but sweet always; 
Soft luminous shadows that I may not take 
Into my hands again, but still discern 
Drifting like gilded ghosts before my eyes. 
Beneath the waters of forgotten things.
            Sweet with faint memories,

And mellow with old loves that used to burn 
Dead summer days ago, like fierce red kings.
And this hour too must die, even now the sun
Droops to the sea, and with untroubled feet
The quiet evening comes: the day is done.
The air that throbbed beneath the passionate heat
Grows calm and cool and virginal again.
The colour fades and sinks to sombre tones.
As when in youthful cheeks a blush grows dim.
            Hushed are the monotones 
Of doves and bees, and the long flowery lane 
Rustles beneath the wind in playful whim.

Gone are the passion and the pulse that beat 
With fevered strokes, and gone the unseen things 
That clothed the hour with shining raiment meet 
To deck enchantments and imaginings. 
No joy is here but only neutral peace 
And loveless languor and indifference, 
And faint remembrance of lost ecstasy.
            The darkening shades increase. 
My dreams go out like tapers—I must hence. 
Far off I hear Night calling to the sea.