Our Jewish Bodies

By Elisabeth Bialosky


You carried me through the long days and nights
Of a hot Atlanta summer
As I sat in the back of an Uber with you
Because I didn’t know where we were

I can still smell
The greasy breakfast pizza
You complained about
As we argued about circumcision and whether or not
It mattered

In the movie theatre
You made fun of me for how much I wanted to consume
Hot, buttered popcorn
And a vegetarian hot dog
Like you

The saltiness tasted like the ocean that I knew
I wouldn’t go with you to

But I was hungry
Because you weren’t an option

We went to the coffee shop
And had two mochas
I looked down in my mug
And remembered the transcendence of another
And how you didn’t believe in God
And I, wondering, how I could
When I didn’t believe in us

In the wine bar
We poured two reds
I didn’t know what it was called
Because I let you pick
And you yelled at her
Because she didn’t have any individuality
And I smiled
Because the wine tasted like the ocean

And then I left
And then you left
And I wanted so badly
For your departure
To be because of mine

It is almost as if
Every time I try to write about you
I forget my language
And only remember
The times that we both
Knew that we were meant
To be


Elisabeth Bialosky transplanted to Denver from Detroit in July. She is a middle school literacy specialist who’s been teaching for three years. Elisabeth writes in her free time to make sense of the emotions she would otherwise compartmentalize. She also enjoys reading, fashion, glassblowing, and dancing.

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