My mother taught me to knit.
Back then, knitting was a necessity, not some artisan craft like it is today. She would get patterns from women's magazines and cheap wool from the market. She
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wet breakfast, I comb my hair
and dress in a cleaner
shirt. in the kitchen,
you move bottles
off the table,
careful as a bulldozer
knocking houses
in palestine. the sun lands
on the front
of the building, twisting
like the face
of a sunflower. windows
gape open around us,
bringing light
and hairbrush-dry heat.