The Sublet, Tel Aviv

A poem I wrote in the weeks after Oct 7:

The Sublet, Tel Aviv

I joined eight Facebook groups last spring, seeking shelter. 

Five months later, I cannot leave any of them.

In the spring, Israelis could smell the breath of summer

and the privileged American teenagers descending homeward

I give you best deal, no? Israeli man tries to convince me over the phone.

The place was a shithole.

Dream house, they write. Fourth floor, no elevator.

In the summer, I stepped over dead cockroaches and endured the squelch

Of the murky liquid that ran from the walls.

Only one burner worked. Everything short-circuited. At least, 

There was AC. I was tempted to complain to those same Facebook groups.

Lies, I wanted to write. 

It is fall, now, and the groups still post. And you would not know they are at war. 

No rockets streak over the “fun balcony.”

They don’t mention how the raucous Tel Aviv streets have gone quiet.

That there are only 90 seconds between when the siren sounds and the rocket lands.

Instead, they write:  

“we are moving out and leaving our amazing apartment near Kikar Dizengoff”

“Instant sublet / no questions asked”

“in light of the situation, it’s a shame that my room will be empty for a while!”

They list the amenities. 

But before the in-unit washer, before the AC, they write 

Mamad, and safe room, and shelter.

They say war in novel words.

They say terror in pictures of king beds with the orange sheets I slept in this summer

They say we are fleeing for our lives in exclamation points they add to every sentence.

“You see a sunset every day!” someone promises without also mentioning 

the nightly light show of Hamas rockets meets Iron Dome.

“The stairs are without windows!”

One Russian immigrant shares life news with the group I still check, compulsively.

Her apartment is newly empty, but not because of war,

But because she and her boyfriend are moving in together.

Love wins also in war times, she writes.