Betsy Robin Schwartz

In Paris alone—

I buy pastries for Pesach.

I buy rosary beads for you.

The language of hymns mixes in the air

its essence a sweet aria like the

harmony we hum when you and I make love.

I walk Rue de Rosiers with sacramental steps

wishing religion was not a branding iron,

but a kiss of peace

a caress of conscience.

At home—

We touch.

The Red Sea parts.

No one drowns.

The holy host is the body, not the blood.

Manna falls from heaven into my hands.

I see an angel on each post of your bed.