Tucson 2, or Oasis

They tell me there's not much to see in Tucson in August if I want to avoid heatstroke and other desert malaises, so we stay inside, write poems, watch Firefly and cook. This sweet house of souls that smell like garlic and kindness, they're generous with their hands and their space. I haven't been this cuddled since I left Massachusetts, and I revel in it like a puppy.

The poetry night was the best I've been to yet. Eighty people relaxing comfortably in a long, wide coffee shop and offering lots of smiles as I took the stage in my pajamas, in my crazy just-brushed hair. The set completely flew by, moving smoothly from G-d, to love to Jewishness. I performed "Swastika" and dedicated it to the poet who drove me down from Phoenix. We had spent a good chunk of the hour and a half ride talking about trauma and being grand/children of the war. The poet who won the slam that night, a goy, told me he'd never felt that punched by the Holocaust before, never felt it so harsh in his gut. I thanked him. I'm never sure what to say to the ones I've wounded. It's as though I've punched their teeth in, and they're thanking me as they spit out the blood.

I wish I was staying here longer, but heading north is tempting. The mountains here look like toads, dried and bumpy and brown-green. My skin is hungry for moss and evergreens. My hair, on the other hand, loves it here and promises me that it would never go frizzy again if we stay.