Passover
The ritual never varies:
We gather with the usual friends.
Soon there is that almost prurient blend
Of the secular and the sacred
When we are called back by the rough handling
Of the readings from back to front, and
By the awkward, unpracticed succession of foods
Called back to the casual pondering
Of the history of it all.
How the plagues came,
How having killed the lamb or goat,
Having marked their doorframes with an X in
blood,
How the angel, sword in hand,
Came and went, but
How the angel slid through the Egyptians’ doors,
and
Smiling with self-assurance
Sought out the eldest Egyptian son, and
Did its work.
--March 25, 2013 |