The Converts

Chana Bloch

1981

On the holiest day we fast till sundown.
I watch the sun stand still
as the horizon edges towards it. Four hours to go.
The rabbi’s mouth opens and closes and opens.
I think: fish
and 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…
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