Naomi Tate Maghen
was born in London, England and lives in Israel. She is a mixed media and ceramic artist. She started writing poetry when health issues prevented her from creating art. Today, she’s a daytime artist and an occasional poet. Her work can be seen on Instagram @naomitatemaghen
A Collage Titled Security
with an x-acto knife
i slice up my father’s
yellowed photograph
i cleave the three boys right
out from their benghazi balcony
careful to keep their shirts intact
(you can’t transplant half a heart)
i slice the italian from their throats
and the arabic from their ears
they can keep their hebrew prayer lips
(since they’re pursed-shut and smiling)
i slice the angry mob from their eyes
and their bruised tan skin from their temporal lobes
i stick their worker’s limbs
their shirts and their lips
their vacant eyes
and disenfranchised brains
onto a british flag
with animal fat
i burn their jerusalem shoes
Covenant
“and his name in Israel shall be called Yitschak
son of Yaakov” – wording from the Jewish circumcision ceremony
seek out closed cubicles for public pissing
when you’re older
anglicise your name
i mumble into the talcum powder cloud
securing his nappy with a cross stitch
what’s in a name
i slot the answer in a box under the stairs
with all my other snipped things
the five books of moses
a passover plate
plastic frogs and fake blood
tzitzit skullcaps
a blue-starred flag
here’s what i should write on these boxes highly flammable handle with care
i quiet the crying at my breast
and i call my baby yitschak
when i bathe him
i call him yitschak when i kiss him goodnight
i call him yitschak
when i send him to school on his bike
like his name isn’t a history of sacrifice
that outstretches my mortal vagina
Dear Mother
i tried to call you again yesterday
luka was pulling at her leash
barking at the scent of a family
barbeque in someone else’s yard
you launched into pride judith’s kids
how they sing like you on a stage
holy holy holy lord they click their heels and you’re there
i stopped listening grunt grunt
is my new smile and nod
you didn’t notice my kids
were calling me to action
this i can do transition to the present
where i’m present sometimes
i don’t call you for weeks in the kitchen window
i see myself disgruntled
like you disembodied hands washing dishes
a ghost trapped between amens
a high-cut neon pink swimsuit you disappeared
floats into mind your flapjacks that stuck
in my teeth like i love you’s
that time you leaned in to kiss me goodnight
and i was so surprised i caught you
full on my parted lips
i still wonder what you did with it
that swimsuit
it wasn’t the colour you despised
it was the long black zip from cleavage to belly button
representing choice that i loved that you couldn’t abide
i wonder if it reminded you of your prayerfree childhood
but none of this is what i’d wanted to say
A Six Year Itch
it’s been a month of revelations
a rush to complete the ark
before the rains start
the empty bottle of arak
sits on a pale blue tablecloth
a thrift store floral affair
that doesn’t absorb any spills
the number of steps it takes us to reach the bedroom has pinocchioed
but somewhere between leonard cohen and cupidity
sex dances still
more of a waltz than a tango
like baking a batch of biscuits
without the need for a recipe
whitewashed walls pin the king bed
i’m facing away
you don’t need to grieve he says
my thoughts are pearls
springing down the stairs
attempting to evade the string
An Unfinished Love Story
preface
there was a table between us
and nothing else
in those first bites a pube in the throat
was anecdotal
that tumble in the boot
of my minivan the fateful happenstance of my menstrual cycle
we had to wait had to wait
we couldn’t wait
to pluck at every synapse
sticky notes bridging memories
like neon gills
can two be considered a school of fish
chapter one
oh to discover how to breathe under water
in my late thirties
a bird shits on my garden fence right in front of me my mother
believes in god
but not in breathing
under water
or that table
i didn’t set it right
she chastises me you can’t dissect meat with a dessert spoon silly
chapter two
we heimlich words against each other’s chests
instead of admitting to my mother
instead of admitting to ourselves
that we’re drowning