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The Converts
On the holiest day we fast till sundown. I watch the sun stand still as the horizon edges toward it. Four hours to go. The rabbi's mouth opens and closes and opens. I think fish attd little steaming potatoes, parsley clinging to them like an ancient script. Only the converts, six of them in the corner, in their prayer shawls and feathery beards, sing every syllable. What word are they savoring now? If they go on loving that way, we'll be here all night. Why did they follow us here, did they think we were happier? Did someone tell them we knew the lost words to open God's mouth? The converts sway in white silk, their necks bent forward in yearning like swans, and I covet what they think we've got.