By Alisha Davlin

“I could be a rabbi,” she muses.
He smiles out of politeness, not knowing this language yet.
“Other people’s pain doesn’t bother me, perhaps because mine happened so young.”

Suffering opens an armchair beside you before a shimmering fire. Sit here and hand me your heart. I will cup it in both hands. Suffering recognizes itself like mercury beads recombining after being scattered across an eternity of ground.

But innocence abhors suffering.
Winged, rosy-cheeked, breathless,
it disappears into the hollow of a tree without even glancing back.
While this new you stares after it with arms


“(I write) to make a ripple in the silence.” – the writer

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