A row of tall skinny candles
burn quickly into the night
air, the shamesh raised
over the rest
for its hard work.
Darkness rushes in
after the sun sinks
like a bright plug pulled.
Our eyes drown in night
thick as ink pudding.
When even the moon
starves to a sliver
of quicksilver
the little candles poke
holes in the blackness.
A time to eat fat
and oil, a time to gamble
for pennies and gambol
around the table, a light
and easy holiday.
No disasters, no
repentance, just remember
and enjoy. The miracle
is really eight days
and nights without trouble.

From The Crooked Inheritance (Knopf, 2007)
Copyright 2005 by Marge Piercy.
Used with the author’s permission.