Pass Over
afikomen, split,
brittle as a bruised white belly of desert
under the punishing sun
that same sun calls to the Egypt in my skin
the middle east rises as fig trees toward the light,
browning the small hand that clutches a small treasure
found under the radiator and relinquished for a penny
and assurance that larger hands
would put it all back together
we had bitter for slavery and flat bread for haste,
we asked questions and heard the answers
we sang dayenu, it would have been enough
the story told of terrible plagues
and i had a question, a question
why does our freedom have to depend
on the suffering of others?
on the suffering of mothers?
my mother lost her first-born son
she would not wish that fate on any other,
no matter what theybd done
my mother lost her first-born son
i wear him tattooed on the back of my heart,
an echo of my spine
i stare at the lambbs bone on the seder plate,
think of the angels of death who have spared my people,
and those who have not.
family reunions on my motherbs side are small
i had a first cousin, once removed
who bought a ticket for America,
but stayed in Europe for love
Poland, 1938.
first cousin, once.
removed.
Israel, poor battered child,
turns to the mirror and sees Palestine
she beats at her reflection
and comes away with bloody fists
both sprung from the same cracked desert womb
the children of Isaac and the children of Ishmael
kicking sand on each otherbs toes,
a pair of ancient 9-year-olds
fighting for the attention of
some cold and distant father
Jerusalem eats herself and multiplies,
only to eat herself again
she builds barricades to keep the demons out
something there is that doesnbt love a wall,
that wants it down.
and you, would you build a solid fence through me?
divide the chambers of my heart with brick and mortar?
bricks and mortar rain down on babies
to the cheering of fundamentalists
and we are one step closer to revelations
add to the din the car bombs
and olive-murdering machines
and they fail to hear our motherbs lull-a-bye:
shhhhh. Shalom. Salaam.
in the gathering darkness, i listen for her
i feel my brother,
bleeding ink through each raw layer of skin,
red wine on a napkin,
spelling out a new religion
i ask him,
b
why is this night different from all other nights?b
he is six years old and 6,000
a Cedar of Lebanon.
he smiles, b
on this night, you will turn your
fear to compassion, your frustration to engagement.
you will let your anger pass over you
so that one day soon the desert belly
will come out of her famine to laugh and sigh
in delight of her babies."
as if god could choose one child above another.
as if she would make just one piece of land holy.
(c) arjuna greist 2008
