during torah reading, we played lion king/ 

zig-zagging in the coat room, we were cave hyenas 

swaddled, draped, enveloped in found layers/

in spring, it was handball in the parking lot/

there were dark glass doors 

but familiar suits shuffled in through the side/

the ceiling was low, not high/

the shul’s carpet was green and worn/

always late, my father would smirk—

you know, aleinu is really the most important part anyway/

after davening they served entenmann’s donuts/

loud men poured whiskey at 11am/

once I hugged a skirt-leg and looked up and it was not my mother/

fear drizzled/my body sometimes shaky/I was never lost/

I couldn’t and still can’t pronounce pentateuch

but it blew my mind that one book can be called so many different things/

on yom kippur, bonds are sold for a dream too-realized/

all across the calendar, prayers beg salvation for some/

when I asked my mother to stop waking me up on saturdays

she cried, afraid she would lose me/

a question mark lodged in my throat/

one foot in, one foot out/

then repenting, atoning

insisting that I’ll put all three of my feet in/

Alex Baskin is a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School. He is originally from New Jersey; he can do a handstand, though it hurts his wrists; he is always on the lookout for clothing brands that sell men’s size XS. Have you ever noticed how rarely biographies include questions?