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



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.

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.

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

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