In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • (itinerary: day 8), and: (itinerary: day 9), and: (itinerary: day 14)
  • Robyn Anspach (bio)

(itinerary: day 8)

Bar which is stop, which is son, and forgetting means move forward: Rachel Bremen tilts up her hips.

   The way she once stood on Har Hazikaron, Mount of Remembrance, and the Ninth of Av, seeing the city not stop,

struggling upward to its hills. Or, at five, she spun the world into one blur. Time moves meaning [End Page 52]

forget. At home, where the strip malls flatten into the land they aren’t,

   she will wrap her mind around her stomach. To understand that the Ninth of Av means the heat

burnt hot enough that multi-ton rocks could burst, that people could fracture

millennia later over the center aflame and flung. Is to understand that lifting

her hips meant.

(itinerary: day 9)

At the Kotel, Rachel Bremen stroked the noontime-struck stones and waited to hear

beyond the moans the women rocked from their books, undulating their unfelt, their gold-pure [End Page 53]

bodies, to the wall and back. Later, she would walk among Har Herzl’s tombs and find

dried semen in her hair. While the boys lay open-lipped under the graves that showed their ages, sixteen, twenty-three,

and the pebbles solid above them, not like the petal-lush fleshy flower blooms, never

drooped their heads and dropped, unlike. She would smooth hands over her hair, think

of the boys untouched becoming one with only earth. And would read the Bible verse

on the wall which reads: Rachel weeping for her sons;they were not. [End Page 54]

(itinerary: day 14)

As though studying her body for signs, Rachel Bremen sits on the No. 18 bus. The boys

behind tans the color of uniforms are ancient words— yafim, chamushim—read romance novels

with carbines laid like children asleep in their laps. The bus filled with soldiers and the world here is full

of palm trees and pedestrians and men keeping guard in the doorways of supermarkets and shuls, which she watches

through her window or looks around the way she will later heft her stomach to gauge if queasy. There are signs—

a backpack, an Arab—that make her nervous, and signs which start soon as two weeks after. Two weeks,

she will stand in her kitchen craving honey, the sticky thickness and her mouth too full to speak. [End Page 55]

Robyn Anspach

Robyn Anspach graduated from the mfa program at the University of Michigan. Her poems have appeared in Bellingham Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Third Coast.



Additional Information

Print ISSN
pp. 52-55
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
Back To Top

This website uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience on our website. Without cookies your experience may not be seamless.