The pews are stuffed like a pack
of cigarettes, standing room only
for late arrivals—my friend and I
take the last open seats. A woman in front
of me adjusts her lace head covering,
flips back over pages of Hebrew,
and fans herself with this morning’s program.

Will the congregation please rise
for the reading of the Kaddish.

Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba…

I fix my eyes on a stained glass window
propped open with a brick, gap above the sill
wide enough to fit an arm.

“It would only take one redneck.”
Eve leans toward my shoulder
mid-prayer, and whispers past her hand.

Oseh shalom bim-romav,
hu ya-aseh shalom aleynu
v'al kol yisrael, v'imru amein.

The prayer slips from my mouth
in an approximation of sound,
lips barely parted.

Squeaking pews, pulpy exhales
of prayer books, a collective hush
of rustling suits as we bend to our seats.
Strips of jewel toned sunlight spill
from the stained glass, soak the aisle.

Eve glances across to the row of half-open
windows, nods. “It would only take one
to toss something through there,
we wouldn’t even have a chance.”