My bar mitzvah,

where the rabbi

will call me up,

tell me to Arise

in front of his congregation

and recite blessings

and prayers.

When it’s all done,

according to tradition,

I become a man.

But I don’t know if this can work.

My dad says we are lucky

to find a rabbi who would

still help us.

Most kids start years before.

They attend Hebrew school,

or even take classes online,

but my parents

always seemed too busy

to get it going.

Part of me hoped

they might even forget.

The more I learn

about these traditions,

how important they are,

how intricate,

the more nervous I get.

After it’s done,

I need to observe all 613 mitzvot,

feeding the poor,

being kind to strangers,

honoring my parents—

so much responsibility.

I remember my cousin’s

bat mitzvah,

rhythmic prayers,

and unending songs,

and grown-up tears,

but mostly I remember

my cousin,

radiant in her

cream-colored dress,

her eyes

filled with blue and white,

a sudden and beautiful woman.

Bright moonlight

and party lights,

fireflies in the grass,

dancing in strobe lights,

with cousins and friends

deep into the night.

Games: Hula-Hoop

and hot potato,

a thousand dance contests,

Coke and Pepsi.

Brisket, chopped liver,

baskets of bread

and chocolate rugelach,

near a counter filled

with black-and-white cookies.

My aunt Cookie

and my grandparents

at the long cedar table

near the pond.

The fireflies rose

and doubled on the water.

The grown-ups spent the evening there,

speaking a secret language of hope

and memory.

They stopped each time

a child passed

to smile or pat a head,

adjust a tie,

wipe a mouth.

I found my mother and father

dancing, his left hand

straight out, holding her hand tightly.

They were looking at each other

in a black tuxedo and a silver gown

and the starlight.

Later that night, I ask them if mine will be like this.

Better! my father says, and he grabs my face.

Better, you mensch.

Again, Ari, the rabbi says,

and I start again.

June

Clothes Like Spider-Man

I always wanted

to look like Peter Parker,

just a kid, like me,

trying to figure it all out.

The clothes seem

to just hang off his body,

like he doesn’t need them at all.

For a while,

I wore a vest

like Han Solo’s.

I liked the way it covered my belly.

At Camp Shalom,

near the lake,

I used to watch everyone else,

shirts off, their bodies

tight-skinned and unashamed.

I wanted to be able to do that,

to just stand there in myself.

I want to be like Mark,

broad-shouldered

and muscle-armed.

His 501s in perfect form,

tight around the waist,

the Levi’s patch on display,

32/30, lightly wrinkled at the knee,

a perfect fold at the foot.

On the bike path,

when Frank kicked my leg

while I lay on the ground,

my shirt had crept up

over my stomach and back

from the fall off the bike.