I will spend

Friday and Saturday nights
in a house of God instead
of a bar, drinking Manischewitz
instead of Merlot, my lips
reciting the Sh’ma by rote,
inscribing the words on my heart
and gatepost, while
my mind tries to wander to
inappropriate places.
What foresight to make
the Sabbath early and twofold,
since most sins
surface before Sunday.


I will remember to be

the Ice Queen,
who needs nothing but
mascara and metal
and feels only
with her hands.

I will meet you only

in public places
like restaurants,
where we can talk loudly about
American things
and exchange platitudes
over the small plates
between us.
In the quiet places,
I am too distracted by
your shadow and a streetlight,
knowing that if I said
chiaroscuro, you would
correct my pronunciation
and also understand.

I will no longer

sleep in my clothes after
the long drive home,
trying to preserve the scent of
your soap and cigarettes.
In the morning, they look
wrinkled and slept-in,
smelling only
of cigarettes.

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