someone writes kike on
the blackboard and the
“k’s” pull thru the
chalk, stick in my
plump, pale thighs.
Even after the high
school burns down the
word is written in
the ashes. My under
pants’ elastic snaps
on Main St because
I can’t go to
Pilgrim Fellowship.
I’m the one Jewish girl
in town but the 4
Cohen brothers
want blond hair
billowing from their
car. They don’t know
my black braids
smell of almond.
I wear my clothes
loose so no one
dreams who I am,
will never know
Hebrew, keep a
Christmas tree in
my drawer. In
the dark, my fingers
could be the menorah
that pulls you toward
honey in the snow.
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