I am 16
and sneak out of the sanctuary
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