Yom Kippur

by Danielle Metzger
Tel Aviv exhales, a metronome
extinguishing each light in time
with the rising of stars,
pinpricks of melodies cast purposefully
into the ceiling of the ocean,
while she and I, alone,
leave more than our secrets
scattered on the shoreline
as we wade out past the point
where our toes can cling to the earth.
For twenty-five hours I have pledged
to abstain from water, food, men,
leather shoes, cleanliness,
and how, like a bride,
I vowed to repent
for loving her, knowing her,
for the sins I plan to commit,
sea as my god, god as my witness,
for tracing her collarbone
with my salty lips, for singing
the rhythm of the waters,
and for praying against
the insurgence
of high tide.