Afik-omen
The haggadah went up in flames as we dipped
Our pinkies in red wine
And remembered the dead who the fire conjured forth
Their names scribbled on the Haggadah in 20th century pencil
We carried on the tradition after they passed,
Our foremothers, forefathers,
Their racing Hebrew crescendoing,
Harmony into cacophony
We crowd around my Aunt Charlotte’s
Seder table this Pesach,
Really there are three tables
Why is this night different from all others?
We save placemats for prophets and ancestors
Parting the seas with drunken laughter
Swimming in saltwater and boiled eggs
We become the symbols themselves,
Our tears marinating the brisket,
Even in Long Island we wander the desert
With breads of affliction, horse radish more bitter
Than our captivity itself
In deep pursuit of being free