Miriam's

Poetry

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” 
― Anaïs Nin 

Miriam's poem, "Frog in My Throat," about her mom's Alzheimer's, was published on February 19, 2018, in the Red Wolf Journal. 

"And God Remembered Sarah," was published in the Jewish Literary Journal's October 2017 issue.

Miriam's poem, "First Rain," was published in the September 2017 issue of the Jewish Literary Journal.

"The Magnitude of God," was published in the Jewish Literary Journal's March 2016 issue.

 

The 2015 issue of Arc 24 published two of Miriam's poems: "Why Leaving Israel for a Short Trip Makes Me Feel Untethered," and "Dead Sea Love." 

 

Visit the Summer 2014 issue of The Ilanot Review  to read Miriam's poem, "Undressing a Woman is like Peeling Garlic." 

 

Miriam's poem, "Mercy of a Full Womb," won the 2014 Jewish Literary Journal's 1st anniversary competition. To read the poem, visit the Jewish Literary Journal.

 

Miriam's poem, "Questions my Mother Asked, Answers my Father Gave Her," won the annual 2013 Reuben Rose Poetry competition. To read the winning poem, visit Voices Israel at www.voicesisrael.com. 

 

Read more poetry by Miriam about Alzheimer's in the on-line Winter 2013 issue of The Barefoot Review. 

 

Miriam's poem, "God Writing in the Book of Life," appears in the Spring 2014 issue of Poetica Magazine. Her poem, "In the Jewish Cemetery, Split, Croatia," appears in the 2015 special Holocaust issue. www.poeticamagazine.com. 

 

Visit http://jewishstorywriting.com/articles/rain/ to read Miriam's prize-winning poem about "Rain" in Israel.

 

Miriam's poem, "Dudaim," appears online in the January 2014 issue of Women In Judaism, an online multidisciplinary journal. 

Brain Tangles

by Miriam Green

 

Dandelions

clump like tumors

in the riotous garden

 

of your mind. Empty diagnosis,

you insist. No one tells

the truth, not the doctors,

 

not your husband. Not God

behind His one-way mirrors. Sometimes

you admit you’re confused.

 

The clock’s hands read

like a foreign language.

House plants wither without

 

water. There’s a book in the freezer,

coins in the sugar bowl.

You jam the wrong key

 

into the locked door and

rage when it won’t open.

You wander in rooms

 

you have already abandoned.

If there is a key, it is hidden

in the chaos of your drawers.

 

We sort through piles

of single socks and match

the pairs as if

 

we could patch your brain,

tangles that constrict 

all knowledge

 

until even your name is lost.

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