He sits down in his gray chair,

and he says my name the long way.

He looks at me through his glasses.

It’s quiet

like thick curtains.

In this moment,

I feel his hands

cover mine.

He looks at me

like he sees something

that isn’t supposed to be there.

Ari Rosensweig, he says, how are you?

I don’t know how to answer him.

I want to tell him

that my mother is gone every day.

I want to tell him that my father left,

and I don’t understand why.

I want to tell him that my heart is on fire over a girl.

I want to tell him that I’m trying so hard

to change my life.

I want to tell him that I can’t do it.

I have friends, but I’m lonely.

I want to tell him that I don’t understand these prayers.

I want to ask him if God is real, and why he cares about any of this.

but

I just say,             Okay.

He blinks. Smiles.

And your mother?

I tell him the truth,

that she’s painting

and sculpting a lot,

she’s very, very busy, and we’re

spending a lot of time at Stinson Beach.

He asks me

about my father.

I wait. I let the silence slip through my fingers.

He left,                        I blurt out.

The rabbi looks at me.

Without any words

he goes to his desk,

finds a bag of saltwater taffy,

walks over and sits

down next to me.

Silently, he puts two wrapped

pieces of blue taffy in my hand,

squeezes my shoulder, and says,

Let’s begin.

When I Get Home

All the lights are on.

All the windows open.

The sound of Zamfir’s pan flute

fills the apartment.

Zamfir, the Romanian pan flute player

who, my mom says,

is the greatest who ever lived.

When I hear his music,

I know my mom

has had an especially hard day.

She won’t even talk to me.

The Truth

I went to see the rabbi today.

She smokes on the stairs

outside the kitchen door.

It was good, I say.

I walk to the counter,

find scrambled eggs,

bacon, sausage, a few grapes.

Breakfast for dinner?

Silence

I was worried sick,

she says, looking down the street,

away from me—

Damn it,

she shouts.

The words bounce

from window to window.

Who

do             you

think you are!

She stomps her foot,

then lurches forward,

leaning, bent over.

She coughs out of her throat,

fights for air.

She coughs,

tries to talk,

but her breath

devours her words.

I think of what to say,

but nothing comes

except the desire

to make

up a story

to make

her feel better,

but I don’t want to lie, so I just wait.

Until

she lifts her head,

opens her mouth,

sucks in the atmosphere.

The air races into her,

becomes fire in her belly,

forms one loud gasp,

then

releases,