A stillness in the rare humid air
with three Afghan men here for dinner.
A way to ease them into American life.
No pork. No alcohol. We sit around the table
on the screened porch with a college student
who knows Pashto, a bridge for us
to find out how many children they have
left behind. We see photos on their phones,
hear a language woven and spoken with ancient
words and worlds. There is a truth as the sun disappears
and the chair legs scrape wood against wood.
How they move to the end of the deck
to face east—their bowing backs
holding what is left of the light.