The Stork Opens Her Beak

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

to compensate.

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

Next one 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," says the driver.
"Cross the road from Negba, you know Negba, right?"

By a weepy willow, he drops us off.
We trudge down a long dusty trail.  With little fanfare, 

they put us to work 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 the back porch, 

seated on plastic tubs, we peel potatoes,
dice cucumbers, refill salt and pepper.
Suddenly, my sister says, "I've had enough of this drudgery.
I've gotta move, see the country."

"You can't just go wandering off," I say.
"Yes, I can." She phones up the Katz family 

who I'd stayed with as an exchange student years ago. 

They agree.

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, it's my sister, wearing a dusty blue tank top 

and white Israeli sandals,

her smile victorious, and in that moment, 

the stork opens her beak once more, 

and drops down a streak of red envy 

that enters my heart.