a poem by Suzanne Musin
Maybe my soul remembers.
I sit at the table in Egypt
and so will my daughters and so will theirs
and so will I, this year, alone.
Maybe it’s my blood that remembers
the blood of a sacrificial lamb
that marks our doorposts, trusting
the Angel of Death will pass us over
and kill someone else.
Nailed to the doorpost now,
the mezuzah tells who I am
but cannot say
Here we are. Protect us.
It doesn’t work that way anymore.
and I wonder if the lamb spoke to God
and demanded to know why
her blood was the cost of so much life.
And none of you shall go out the door
of your house until morning—
so I am waiting for the morning
and I cannot tell if the darkness is from
the night or the Angel.
