Jody Cohen
1.
A dime and a quarter in the slot and out
slides a pack of Lucky Strikes.
It fits perfectly in her palm.
She walks past the kiddie pool, where diapers hang to the chubby backs of knees,
past women in white swinging invisible rackets that make green balls sing.
Up past the pool with diving boards at two levels and
decks of seasonal rooms laid out in verticals like a game of solitaire.
Until finally she climbs the last hill and there is
no one.
She opens the Lucky Strikes and lights one, then another and another,
experimenting with how to do it until suddenly she’s
swaying in the buzzing morning heat.
She lands on her back. The grass is soft, the air stale.
Last night she’d flirted with Kurt, a big-headed blond boy who
wore a cross around his neck and planned to be a minister.
She would kiss him three times.
Three cigarettes.
2.
Rikki is tall, broad-shouldered, with hair falling over
one eye,
a sardonic twist to her mouth.
She is a year ahead of me in school, but
on Wednesday nights we meet
in the girls’ bathroom
during Hebrew School.
“6 million Jews…”
The teacher’s accented voice, her
high-waisted flowery dress, her
tongue distended with her passion—
grate on me.
The sinks are low
enough for us to elbow lean
