Three Poems

By Lee Broda

Acre, Israel

at the end of the terrace

where the sea and sky collapse         

the sun peeks over the soft line of the horizon,

sketching the city anew

she tiptoes on the cold morning air

around the turquoise mosque,

its golden spire

nipping at the clouds

she leaps from roof to roof,

houses built of Jerusalem stone

painted by three different religions,

history entwined, engraved in cobbled streets

captured between red roof tiles

and stained cerulean windows

past rust-crumbled doors

she carries tales from centuries long gone,

handed down from mother to son,

accompanied by the yellow crowned birds

singing the morning prayers of Shabbat

Last Time I Checked, I Was Still an Israeli

apparently I’m no longer “Israeli enough”,

though this depends on whether you asked me

(born and raised for two decades)

or an “actual Israeli”

my vowels don’t glide smoothly enough

I lost my Hutzpah

I do my hair too much,

like those Americans on Sex and the City.

I stopped counting their reasons,

accusations like axes,

as seen through their judgmental eyes-- 100% Israeli.

my identity is muscle memory,

encoded in every cell

a stamp on my tongue

written on my Sephardic skin,

whichever way I’m blown by the wind

out of earshot, I’ll confess:

I miss my Israeli-hood;

I’ve lost that signature boldness,

my militance eroded, more concerned with making way,

you’re too polite, mock my childhood friends

(and now it affects me)

my personality slowly softened,

dried skin soaked in hot bath,

my underbelly exposed, vulnerable

to cultural criticism

My Aleppian Legacy

Turkish temperaments

mixed with a Syrian tongue

and Egyptian flavors,

my DNA carries an ancient and rich culture

I am a product of countries clashing

split identities, spilled blood,

torn by religion, petty politics

I carry the legacy of my women,

their struggles, buried desires,

wounds that worsen

with each unfulfilling day

the indignities they had to endure

are longer than this page,

only ink can commemorate

the pain of being separated

from sisters and brothers,

fathers and mothers

the hardship they survived

as children of war

in a country that denied

then imprisoned them

my grandma’s cries still echo,

breaking through iron bars

a human cage,

her tiny voice carrying the weight of

a forgotten generation of refugees

Lee Broda is an Israeli-born poet whose poetry deals with a variety of female-centric issues, as seen through the lens of an immigrant with complex feelings about the physical, emotional, and cultural shifts, as well as the relationship of things, remembered and lost. A passionate storyteller, she began her journey as an actor, and filmmaker as a teenager. Last year, her debut collection of poems, Whispers From The Moon, was published to rave reviews. Her newest anthology titled Facing Home, is an attempt to hold up a mirror to our human nature and its constraints.