From Her Notes
My last Sabbath,
I follow the girls, who sneak into
the wedding
tent, scattered with sun
flower seeds and remnants of
celebration. They
each stand up on a
table. Take a crushed beer can
as a microphone,
sing and move their
fifteen-year-old hips. I watch,
clap for them, until
a small face peers in
the door. A boy. His face white
with something. The door
slamming, his very small
fist holding it shut, having
found what was inside
wrong. Enough, I tell
him; enough! He leaves. The girls
dance again, but less
bold. Look: the boy
has come back, is looking you
hard in the eye, through
the crack of the door.
There, in his hand, a neon
plastic BB
gun. He does this for
his grandmother and for his
son.
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