Next Year in Jerusalem
This piece is a vision—a prayer dressed as a story—of what it might feel like to finally return to Israel not in hiding, not in shame, but as the woman I am. It’s me imagining a future where I come back with my wife, with my friends, with love wrapped around me like a tallit. Where I walk through Jerusalem not as someone trying to pass, but as someone fully home. I wanted to write a moment where I get to belong again—to be Israeli again—but on my terms, as myself. Where the Kotel is a mirror, not a wall. Where “next year in Jerusalem” isn’t just a line we say, but a life I might get to live. One where I am seen, held, and whole.
Read more →And It Came to Pass in the Days of My Hiding
This poem is a midrash on my own childhood—written in the voice of scripture, because that’s how it felt: sacred, hidden, terrifying. It’s about the first time I loved a boy, before I had language for it, before I knew what I was feeling, before I even knew I was a girl. I buried that love deep, like Yosef in Egypt, like the tablets before they shattered. I wrote it in the cadences of Tanakh because that was the world I knew, the language that held me, even as it left me no room to speak my truth. This is me finally naming that truth. This is my prayer for the boys who loved quietly, for the girls we didn’t yet know we were, for all the tears counted in exile.
Read more →When They Say Land Back
This poem is raw grief and unflinching clarity—my response to being told that my pain, as a Jew, is inconvenient. It’s about the heartbreak of watching friends who speak the language of justice fall silent when it’s Jewish blood in the streets. I wrote it in the aftermath of October, when I realized that for many people, my mourning didn’t count. It’s about Zion as marrow, about inherited trauma and survival, about refusing to apologize for still being here. This is what it means to hold memory, rage, and faith all at once—and not let go.
Read more →Every Crumb of Joy | יעדעברעקל פון פרייד | כל פירור של שמחה
This piece is my offering to memory—to all the names I carry, to the ones I never got to know but still somehow grieve. It’s about the heaviness of silence, the ghosts that live in our family stories, and the sacredness of holding joy anyway. I wrote it like a whispered prayer at the edge of exile, clinging to ritual, to niggunim, to matzah and salt water. It’s about how we survive—through song, through stubborn joy, through telling our stories even when the world tried to erase us. Every crumb matters. Every word, a thread back home.
Read more →Shabbat Memories
This story is a quiet little window into a childhood Shabbat, where the chaos and comfort of family wrapped around me like a familiar melody. It’s not just about the candles or the challah—it’s about the way my Bubbe argued like it was music, how my mother’s face softened in that light, and how for one fragile moment, everything felt okay. Even before I had language for myself, for grief, for love—I knew there was something sacred in that stillness. This is me holding onto that memory, the warmth of it, before the world cracked open.
Read more →We Dance Upon the Bones
This poem is my anthem of survival—of being part of a people who’ve outlived every empire that tried to erase us. It’s about memory carried on the wind, languages lost and prayers whispered underground, and still… we’re here. I wrote it with dust on my feet and defiance in my heart. We remember where we come from. We know which way Yerushalayim lies. And even as the world crumbles around us, we dance—not in spite of the ruins, but through them. Because our story was never theirs to end.
Read more →The Seder Is a Map
This poem is my way of sitting at the Seder table with both the past and the present—of tasting the sweetness of liberation while naming the bitter truths that remain. It’s grounded in ritual but restless in spirit, because I know the work isn’t finished. Mitzrayim still casts shadows. The poem moves through the symbols of the Seder as signposts on a journey that never really ends: a call to keep walking, keep marching, keep asking who isn’t free yet. It’s about justice that isn’t easy, joy that’s hard-won, and the stubborn hope that Elijah is already out there, walking with the weary and lighting the way forward.
Read more →Had I been brought forth
This poem is me laying bare the ache of what could have been—what might have come easily had I been born into the right body, the right name, the right kind of welcome. It’s a quiet imagining of a life without shame, where tradition and femininity were mine without struggle. But it’s also a reclamation. Even without that ease, I bless. I sing. I set my own table and pour for Elijah and Miriam alike. There’s grief in it, yes—but also defiance, softness, and faith. I write myself into the rituals that never had space for girls like me, and I make them holy anyway.
Read more →The City and Me
This is a story of walking the line between worlds—between Shabbat and Saturday night, between Côte-Saint-Luc and downtown Montreal, between safety and visibility. It's me navigating what it means to be a Jewish girl, a trans girl, a girl who doesn’t quite fit but insists on showing up anyway. Every detail—the metro ride, the makeup, the Magen David at my throat—becomes part of the armor I wear and the truth I carry. There’s tension in every breath, but also resilience. I wrote this to show what it’s like to step into the world and come back with your name still intact. Not untouched, but unbroken.
Read more →Purple Suede and Pita Crumbs
This one’s about falling—quietly, unexpectedly—for a Nice Jewish Boy™ in a purple suede kippah, during that weird liminal space right before Pesach. It’s about how he made me laugh, how he didn’t prod or puzzle or push, just was, and let me be too. It’s about the sweetness of being seen gently, not dissected. And yeah, it’s about flirting over chess and chametz jokes, about the ache of wanting something that feels simple but never is. I wrote it to hold that softness—to capture what it’s like when connection shows up dressed in pita crumbs and casual invitations, and you let yourself hope, just a little.
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