Wet Thread

You assembled me with great care and patience like a ship in a bottle. You made me a fine coat with matching pants with pockets like yours. The only difference was that I was not in mine. Sometimes, you would take me out and talk to me, and though you did not wait for me to respond, you knew I was listening and that I truly cared as you did with me. The others said I could not be your friend. I didn’t know what a friend was, but I hoped they were wrong. That night, you cried. You used me to wipe your tears, but I did not mind because they were warm, and they were yours. I could not cry. I wondered what it was like. I wondered if I could not be your friend because I could not cry. 

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shalev smokler

NY

13 years old

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  • Fiction

    By shalev smokler

    Silence

    My name is silence. The silence of the doctor as he walked in. The silence as they understood he would not be born. The silence of the phone line as she learned she was not a grandmother. The silence of the ride home.

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  • Nonfiction

    By shalev smokler

    Mr. Red

    There is a man on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. I do not know him, and he does not know me. He wears a red tee-shirt with red sweatpants. He wears a red coat with red shoes. He wears a red ski mask on his face.

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  • Poetry

    By shalev smokler

    Not Borach

    I do not know if he lived but like the monsters under my bed, he was real enough to touch me. His name was Borach to me. He used to keep carp in the bathtub. He used to make sauerkraut in the closet.

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