When I was five,

my pockets were full

of chestnuts, acorns, and stones.

The trees were huge,

and adults – wise and almighty.

At fifteen, my pockets

were full of loose change

and lip gloss in three different flavors.

The trees didn’t matter at all,

and adults were cringe and lame.

At twenty-five,

my pockets were full of

flyers for free drinks,

unfinished poems,

and damp matchboxes.

Technically, I was an adult,

but never really felt like one.

At thirty-five,
my pockets again
held chestnuts, acorns, stones—
but they weren’t mine.

Suddenly, I became a real adult:
boring, anxious, overprotective.

Now, in my forties,

my pockets are packed with stickers:

Rape is not resistance,

Jewish lives matter,

Believe Israeli women,

We will dance again. 

And a chunky black marker

that stains my fingers,

to scrawl below every sign

free Palestine – 

from Hamas,

from Hamas,

from Hamas.

I feel so old

since October 7

Ancient 

as Judea