Rosh Hashanah

“This is a time for reflection,” Rabbi Borax says in a mass email. I hold my own service. The moths clinging to the screens pray to get in. The orchids open their lovely legs. At the end of the row, crows badger each other over hymnals. I cut the shofar loose. My dog smells the

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I Did It

I took all the free samples at the chocolate shop even though the lady behind the counter frowned after my first handful and tried to wrest the basket from my grip. I walked out without buying a single chocolate, though I had sat there for hours sipping hot water through a straw. I know what

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Phaeton

History tells the story again and again. Horses buck. A chariot runs wild, reins ripped from the son’s grasp. Missiles fall. Below, seeds blow through armored bellies. A rainbow floats south in the tarry ooze. The mangled armies clash in the dust. Villages collapse into sinkholes. Families lie under debris. The son says a prayer,

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Working in Flour

When I walked into the bakery at my usual time asking politely for two marble cookies, a fudgy chocolate drop rising from the chocolate swirls, Ida Kaminsky, who came from strong Russian stock— a hearty vegetable stew, spicy meats rolled in cooked cabbage—winked and asked if I wanted a job. She offered me two bucks

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