Inheritance
I didn’t know how to cook.
My older sister left me
the birthright just like that,
she went.
Her children came to live with us,
the pot widened.
Its handles became farther from each other
and my sister from me.
The potatoes in it grew heavy.
The faucet bent its head
over the kitchen sink
like a horse hitched to the house-cart.
Once with a press on the button
of the electric teapot
I moved the world,
now I drag the reins.
Careful not to get close to its end
lest it turn over again.
by Nadia Adina Rose
from Snow Ink
publisher: Helicon-Afik, Tel Aviv, 2015
translation: 2018, Linda Zisquit