Three’s a Minyan – a poem by Yermiyahu Ahron Taub

Three’s a Minyan

This building, our sanctuary, has seen better days.
Nights, too, sure enough. 

The black and white tiles are worn into almost-ash.
Where did I once hear that marble is forever?

The floor is buckling.
The paint is cracking overhead.

Its flakes drift without hurry onto the grand chandelier,
confetti among crystals.

Here I was called into a manhood
I resisted, kicking and screaming

until my legs ached and my voice grew hoarse.
A manhood I still haven’t found.

Here was the kiddush for the miracle of Malkah, 
whose parents had so long hoped to welcome.

Outside, the needles litter the sidewalk.
The dealers and their customers negotiate in lethal embrace.

Some step away and rest on our benches.
Who would we be if we evicted them?

Their pleas—please—
mingle with our prayers.

Even the dollar store may soon be closing.
Such brazen theft, they say. Not even bothering to pilfer.

And still the nectar of the cantor’s voice washes over me,
causing me to weep if I think about it

as he calls out the High Holiday liturgy
“Hineni he-oni ….”/Here I am, impoverished … 

In the ritual bath of that voice,
I am forgiven. Patched into crazy quilt.

And still we three assemble to honor what was
and what still is.

We see to it that the electric candles on each of the bimah’s four posts
glow beneath their glass globes. 

We ensure the suaveness of the prayerbook bindings.
We gather the page shards for burial.

And we gather to read the weekly Torah portion.
Instead of a single reader, we three take turns.

We will never surrender our Torah scrolls.
See their unstolen finials sparkle in this incandescent gloom.

We understand Jacob’s devotion,
his love. We will wait, too.

We remember when one hundred was not unusual. 
We remember when we hoped for ten.

Now we are content with, grateful for, three.
We mark the passage of days. And yes, again, the nights.

We stick with the texts, the songs.
The reminiscences on more recency/decency are in our blood,

our bones.
We won’t rehash them.

Who are we?
We are three of fluidity tending a sliver of holiness.

We are three who shall not be moved.
We will stay until we are two or one.

Until our days are done.
Only let us not dwell there. But only here.

Though we are not ten,
we are still three.

We are neither patriarchs nor matriarchs.
We are without child. But children nonetheless.

Our prayers on that front were not answered.
That’s sometimes how it is with prayers.

This building, our sanctuary, your sanctuary, sways amid the ruins.
We are the caretakers of this corner of supplication.

Come to us, child. You are welcome here.
Our melody flits and darts, gathers force as it rises,

east, and elsewhere,
somehow finding just the right key to open the gates of heaven.

Yermiyahu Ahron Taub is a poet, writer, and translator of Yiddish literature. He is the author of two books of fiction and six volumes of poetry, including A Mouse Among Tottering Skyscrapers: Selected Yiddish Poems (2017). His recent translations from the Yiddish include Dineh: An Autobiographical Novel (2022) by Ida Maze and Blessed Hands: Stories (2023) by Frume Halpern. Please visit his website.