a poem by Suzanne Musin
The rabbis claim ten plagues, or forty,
two hundred, or more.
I killed a locust myself in the kitchen,
wondering what it meant. Did the locust come
to protect me or am I the one cursed?
We are walking out of Egypt now
and the dough cooked without rising.
Five stacked boxes of matzo sit
on the curb the day after Passover.
No one wants them.
We step through His parted sea
onto dry land and we wander
forty years before seeing the flowers in our garden.
I sit outside by a lemon tree and I know
I forgot already how many drowned.
My brother stayed behind and we never spoke again.
He said freedom will forsake me
and my children will beg for bread
And now I am old.
I could have stayed with him,
but He cursed me always to roam away,
on a wild hunt for something less than slavery
and something more than bread.
