Shopping for Shabbat in the Diaspora

Bruce Black

Each Friday afternoon I drive to the grocery store
a few miles away.
It’s not like shopping in Machane Yehuda
or the Tel Aviv shuk
where you can smell the fragrant aromas
of fresh baked challah, bourekas, and malawach,
fried eggplant, ground tahini, sweet cheese kanafeh
kubbeh soup, and mounds of spices,
and where you are surrounded by
a kaleidoscope of colors—
endless rows of leeks, peppers, radishes,
tomatoes, dried fruit, nuts, and more.
It’s not an open market
under a blue sky
where it’s as if the eye of God
is watching over you,
and you can feel the Shabbat angels
preparing to descend from the clouds.
It’s a store like any other
suburban grocery.
Muzak playing, check-out counters
humming.
Conveyor belts carrying boxes and jars
to registers.
Cashiers ringing up prices
baggers putting each item in a bag.
It’s not like shopping for Shabbat
in Israel and feeling closer to heaven.
Even so I arrive home eager
to prepare dinner,
hoping soon the Shabbat angels
will join us at our table
and hear our prayers
and bless the day
and grant us peace—
a Shabbat shalom.