The Stork Dropped Us

That night, we slept with distant cousins,
lost our luggage en route to Tel Aviv.
Shifra wasn't terribly glad to see us.
We gave her Nina Ricci from Air France.

"Best hit the road as soon as sun is up,"
Shifra says. "Start interviewing early."
First kibbutznick will not have my sister,
"Too young, too much responsibility."

Next agrees to take her; he's a Communist.
"Fine, even a girl of fourteen can work."
Orders Egged driver to drop us at Sde Yoav.
"Never heard of it, my friend," the driver shrugs.
"Cross the road from Negba, you know Negba."

By a weepy willow, he drops us off.
We trudge down a long dusty trail. With
little fanfare, they put us to clearing
a field, bending, tossing rocks of all sizes

into a pile. As I bend down yet again,
I see before me a flapping of wings.
A stork has opened her beak and dropped us
down on this God forsaken plot of earth.

For three days, we toil under the hot sun.
Watery blisters sprout on our arms and faces.
"Listen, sisters, this is not for you.
 Try making yourselves useful in the dining hall."

Blissfully, we mop. Out on back porch, we
peel potatoes seated on plastic tubs,
dice cucumbers, refill salt and pepper.
My sister says, "'Nuff of this drudgery.

I've gotta move, see what's going on here."
"You can't just go wandering off," I say.
"Yes, I can," she blithely replies.
She phones a family that I'd stayed with years

ago, they say they'll take her for a while.
Days pass, maybe weeks, I'm picking pears.
A strident sun roils the sky, when
in the distance, a silhouette, a woman

from the days of Abraham, our father,
balancing an urn on her head, walking
our way, only now, my sister's wearing a
dusty blue tank top and white Israeli sandals,

her smile victorious, satisfied, and
in that moment, the stork opens her beak
once more, and drops down a streak of red
envy that enters my heart.