Mya Guarnieri lives in Tel Aviv and is a citizen of both Israel and the United States. She holds a Master's of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Florida State University. She has published poetry in 27 rue de fleures and an author interview in The Online Literary Companion of the Southeast Review. She frequently contributes book reviews and human interest stories, as well as the occasional travel piece, to The Jerusalem Post.

Jerusalem Syndrome

I want my feet to bleed on to these stone streets. Then I will rest, I will sleep under the buildings, I will root myself into the earth.

This year the black storks rerouted, taking a wrong turn, missing Jordan. This year the old woman with the watery eyes sifts through stars.

My hands shake and I feel something magical. It is easy. It is easy to rhyme in Hebrew. It is

Easy for the language to have a musical quality, to end your sentences in exhalation, in a sigh. The old woman has come from somewhere.

She’s got a bowl full of pomegranate seeds. Her fingers dip up and down, like a bird’s head. She’s got surgical gloves on to protect her skin from the stain.

It won’t change. The storks are lost, they’re still here, even though they didn’t mean to be.

Her fingers are red, juice seeped through ripped latex. She’s plucking out her teeth. One by one. She’s tossing them to the sky to see if they’ll stick.