Rachel Kaufman
History arrived
breaking open at her seams, like
the cry of a baby as she decides
how deeply to breathe and
if this world merits her
sighs or if she should stay
elsewhere, in her world
of dream, her gaze pre-
startling, her tears pre-
ducts. When history arrived without
a cry, how were we to know
to prepare—our bodies and
our baths, our kitchen tables and
our bearings. It is obvious
we learn to cry so we can learn
to breathe. The baby keeps
her eyes on me as she gathers
from ghosts above
her reach. At the edge
of every knowing lies asleep
some world we’ve left
behind—choose
your spirits, blue or
bronze. I choose
you, but you arrive
breaking. I go inside
for thread, it is too
long. I tie you past
your due. The morning
breaks birth over a long,
hard table. I am too
short to see, or so
I say. I lay a quilt
on every surface. We all
lie still for a moment,
then you arrive again.
the cry of a baby as she decides
how deeply to breathe and
if this world merits her
sighs or if she should stay
elsewhere, in her world
of dream, her gaze pre-
startling, her tears pre-
ducts. When history arrived without
a cry, how were we to know
to prepare—our bodies and
our baths, our kitchen tables and
our bearings. It is obvious
we learn to cry so we can learn
to breathe. The baby keeps
her eyes on me as she gathers
from ghosts above
her reach. At the edge
of every knowing lies asleep
some world we’ve left
behind—choose
your spirits, blue or
bronze. I choose
you, but you arrive
breaking. I go inside
for thread, it is too
long. I tie you past
your due. The morning
breaks birth over a long,
hard table. I am too
short to see, or so
I say. I lay a quilt
on every surface. We all
lie still for a moment,
then you arrive again.
From his Jewish lover
Ramallah, ramallah, my lover wakes me up
in his sleep, eyes closed, his speaking
for elsewhere. He is so handsome, too
tall for me, even as we mostly
agree, though I must always agree
with him, he never with me.
He makes me a feast; I watch
his careful laying out of tahini, parsley, and
bread. Mostly everyone is starving.
We eat with appetite in bed.
When the fire reigns down, the linen skirts
laid out to dry resist
for just a moment,
the water off their skin cool to touch
until the heat burns through, the clothesline
buckles, and the little girl, her best dress
in flames, rushes inside to find
she remains outside,
the kitchen walls turned to rubble, and her mother
standing in the middle of the sky
and looking up.
Pray to the other’s God, please, and see
if the earth burns a little more slowly.
His mother tells me, we have the same God,
and she is right.
In the desert the rain
douses us in shame; our God-given sparks relinquish
any last substance, and so we suckle
sand’s skin, the supple coating
of water on land, which we pray
to milk and she, this shared and entirely unshared desert,
laughs at our attempt
as she gazes
exactly where we gaze—
the ash silent as it sinks everything
one step closer to earth yet
leaves our footprints sharp lest
we forget the land’s
steadfast remembering
of all we have chosen to destroy.
in his sleep, eyes closed, his speaking
for elsewhere. He is so handsome, too
tall for me, even as we mostly
agree, though I must always agree
with him, he never with me.
He makes me a feast; I watch
his careful laying out of tahini, parsley, and
bread. Mostly everyone is starving.
We eat with appetite in bed.
When the fire reigns down, the linen skirts
laid out to dry resist
for just a moment,
the water off their skin cool to touch
until the heat burns through, the clothesline
buckles, and the little girl, her best dress
in flames, rushes inside to find
she remains outside,
the kitchen walls turned to rubble, and her mother
standing in the middle of the sky
and looking up.
Pray to the other’s God, please, and see
if the earth burns a little more slowly.
His mother tells me, we have the same God,
and she is right.
In the desert the rain
douses us in shame; our God-given sparks relinquish
any last substance, and so we suckle
sand’s skin, the supple coating
of water on land, which we pray
to milk and she, this shared and entirely unshared desert,
laughs at our attempt
as she gazes
exactly where we gaze—
the ash silent as it sinks everything
one step closer to earth yet
leaves our footprints sharp lest
we forget the land’s
steadfast remembering
of all we have chosen to destroy.
Rachel Kaufman is a poet, teacher, and PhD candidate in Latin American and Jewish History at UCLA. Her work explores diasporic memory and argues for the power of poetry as historical method. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming on poets.org and in The Georgia Review, Harvard Review, AGNI, Los Angeles Review of Books, Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies, and Colonial Latin American Review. The author of poetry collection, Many to Remember (2021), she was a 2023 Helene Wurlitzer poet-in-residence, a 2025 Willapa Bay AiR poet-in-residence, and a Fulbright-Hays Scholar. See rachel-kaufman.com