Naivëte, like a broken clock, gets it right twice daily.
Jews and Muslims are cousins, are family, I hear
in Morocco, from the taxi driver, the be-scarved woman
guarding a blue synagogue. Even though they should be
cranky, be-swearing food and drink; even as it’s Ramadan,
and the driver in baseball cap careens in his springy red taxi.
God gives us strength. Of Jews they smile, they glow.
In pious Fès, peace reigns. If you want to be sassy,
you might wink about how Jews drink –
so the guide in his djellaba believes.
Later, the muezzin erupts as the sun sinks;
He has also marked the start of Shabbat. The simultaneity
of it, the shared overlap of skullcaps and wraps.
A Jewish friend says, “It’s a blessing to be a Jew
here.” A rare bird: she came back. Her wish blows
like the Sirocco: “if only all Muslims practice as they do in Morocco.”
