4

Another Monday morning watching Netflix
Sun streaming through the curtains
When I should be running errands
Now I'm checking online sex tips, gmail, espn.
The dishes are piling up in the sink
and I'm browsing through
the British high school comedy section
How has this happened again?
How has this happened again?
I was supposed to be studying for the LSAT.
I was supposed to training for the marathon.
Why is my computer on?

Banano©

Place Banano in solution overnight.

A bottle cap or shot glass is ideal.

After 12 hours, remove Banano.

Fill a large fruit bowl with water

and add Banano.

In two weeks, Banano

should grow into a full bunch of fully-ripe bananas*.

Ripened Banano will taste and behave

exactly like real bananas.

Peel and enjoy!



*Banano should yield at least 3 but no more than 6 bananas. If Banano yields 7 or more bananas, DO NOT EAT. Your Banano may be toxic. Dispose of Banano safely and mail a small sample to

Banano, Inc. Laboratories

8954 Labor Dr.

Ste. #557

Toledo, OH 43609

Visit www.stemfruits.com/banano/lab for further information about sampling procedures.

Bacon-Wrapped Chicken

stuffed with spinach and ricotta cheese,
bacon brick-red and brittle as dry leaves.
Each breast arcs from a pool of grease
the smell of which is almost a sufficient meal itself.
The Jew in me is exhilarated by the prospect
of so many transgressions in one bubbling pan--
not only the milk and the mother,
but the Saturday cook, the willful disregard
for health, my goy girlfriend's joy in knowing
all this is for her. But most ofall
I think of my grandmother's homemade cheesecake,
my mother's noodle kugel, the cookies at Shabat dinner
which the Rabbi's wife provided for the whole congregation
although only thirty or so came to services.
I think of frizzy hair tucked under scarves
and pots of pasta buried in steam,
the work and the heat and the pruned fingers,
a work which I did not begin,
a work which is not mine to complete.

January Rebirth

It is 5 degrees.
I am biking home from a bar shift at 2 AM.
The gears of my bike
chatter their rusty teeth.
The wind in a green doctor’s mask
slaps my newborn cheeks with a rubber gloved hand.
Breathe.
Open your eyes.

Coming from a climate-controlled womb,
every season is winter.
Landscapes of goose bumps construct themselves
under my puffy coat.
A new world crystallizes in the frost
porch swinging from my snot nose.
My gloved hunchback fingergrip around handlebar icicles
are ten old men crossing the street:
the rigid incline of their timeworn frame
bows to the frosty now,
oblivious to the time of day
or mortality rate of other extremities.