FRINGES

FRINGES

I am 16
and sneak out of the sanctuary
with him
during the rabbi’s sermon,

we search for trouble, find Manischewitz
and guzzle dixies, giggling through front doors,
like third-graders in June.

Arms filled with soft tallit,
we toss sneakers like lost grenades onto
the little beach, rest borrowed prayer shawls

in damp sand
and kiss silent under stars
as holy fringes tickle our skin.

Published in Cliterature Magazine

LEAVES

LEAVES

April sings warm through
soft afternoon, pink air on my lips
that tune in my ear, you on my mind.
A brook trickles over jagged rocks,
I cross, balancing on sharp slippery stones
happily stretching my foot to shore.

Now, I sit on a stone wall, sad
like Humpty Dumpty
walk miles rocky over wooded path of mud
skeletal remains of leaves left dead
to stamp, tromp, tramp on
soil’s brown hybridized with a tree’s innards,
wondering.

Published in “>Vita Brevis Press

CLOSER

CLOSER

June
We always take the furthest spot, eager to walk
the flat expanse of the parking lot.
On occasion you smile in these first days
swollen with hope,
late June sunshine on your shoulders,
the Dogwood just in bloom.

August
Hot, you wave a limp wrist
motioning me to park nearer.
The tree is laden with green now
like emerald stars. Ghosts float
through glass doors.

November
Spread.
Hip, kidney, bone. You hobble from car to
lobby filled with mums and pumpkins.
That wool cap fits loosely now, your face still
beautiful,
chiseled, sunken,
the sleeves of your cardigan slip.

February
The wheels on your chair thin, snow deep.
This final infusion is
a crucifixion,
your Simon of Cyrene sips
coffee with security as I
recline the seat and
writhe you out.

Published in Vita Brevis Press

NEW JUNE

NEW JUNE

The town pool splashes
with half-naked dysfunction.
Kids in pink hats
and mint crocks skittle by young
moms as they flip flop
to the parking lot, straw bags swing
like empty briefcases.

Earbud-clad, gaggles of tweenagers
swagger by
manicured and pedicured,
American Girl dolls
in white bikinis
swiping glass.

This is where they learned to swim,
gliding and flying
through cerulean water,
wet mops squeezed
into latex caps, ferocious limbs
smacking behind,

little tsunamis, bronze arms
cascading through blue,
shadows of backstroke flags
wave like Autumn leaves
near water’s edge, we

cheer on our lithe Pisces,
as they flip and twist
under soft waves
of youth.

Published in Brief Wilderness

KOSHER BUTCHER

KOSHER BUTCHER

They run giggling
into a blue room
lined with death and freezers.
My cousins are
young like veal
and take no notice of

refrigerated flesh
necks, breasts and thighs
neatly dressed in pressed cellophane,
instead the chicks
carry on their game of

hide and seek amongst
tendon and bone as my
aunt throws
a handful in the cart,
treats for pets.

Soon the calves are restless.
Bored and cold they
shiver ridiculous
like the last survivors
of an Alaskan plane crash.

Their hen shushes them
checks her wallet
chucks two more
headless,
wrapped in plastic.

At checkout the youngest
requests candy. A plastic
pickle tub is presented
filled with cherry goldfish, lemon
lollipops and pink bubble gum.

We skip out,
five of us, holding
hands,
our mouths
stuffed with sweetness.

Published in Streetlight Press