Lo beseder
Margot Goldberg
This poem was written for Shabbat for Ceasefire and read as a part of the January 20th service.
I woke up this morning
To a layer of fresh snow
The street lights still lit
We are all home, nowhere to go
A slow day, paced for closeness
I sit with my coffee, planning
I get up to prove the yeast, salt the roast.
It is Friday. A luxury to linger in preparing for Shabbes.
The challah dough made, I take a moment to lob its heft high into the air, a few times
Just for joy. I pause and inhale its scent
Sweet wet wheat
before returning it to the bowl to rise.
Tomorrow we read Parshat Bo.
The very worst of the plagues.
A drop of wine lifted from my cup by the pinky
Deposited on the rim of my plate.
How much wine has been spilt in this way over the ages? In what unit might I measure it? Cups? Gallons? Liters? Stock tanks? Cisterns? Ponds? Lakes? Seas?
How does that volume compare to that of the blood spilt by the Angel of Death on that long, dreadful night?
How much wine could atone for Gaza? Ramallah? Nablus? Hebron?
How does G-d mourn all G-d’s children lost?
Does G-d count the drops of wine lifted from our glasses?
When does G-d thunder in, countenance ablaze, voice booming
NO MEASURE OF MIRTH LOST CAN PAY FOR THIS MADNESS
STOP IT NOW AT ONCE I MEAN IT
How do I teach my children this year, my sometimes wise and sometimes wicked one, my not-so-simple one who cannot yet ask?
Next year, where?