As a child, I pretend the dark
raised circles on my matzah
are Braille. I run my forefinger across
them one by one, like I am reading
the story of perseverance
passed generation to generation
through the baking of a bread
that is not a bread, but is affliction.
I chew.
Grind years of bondage
between my teeth, swallow
our fate.
When I open my mouth—
the telling of our exodus splits
me like a red sea, swallows
me like a serpent, scatters me
across scorching sands.
Come closer so you don’t miss
even a drop as it spills out of my mouth
like the wine that stains crimson
the tips of my fingers.
It is important to listen,
to our own/each other’s
stories, if only we’d graze
our fingertips across each other’s scars,
gently, carefully, full of absorbed
intention to read the afflictions
like a haggadah etched into us
like the charred blisters of the unleavened.
Then, and only then, might we all finally rise –
a latent yeast – a dormant blooming. Modified
elements, alive and ready to leaven.
