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Poetry

in every generation, each person must regard himself or herself as if he or she were the one liberated, on the very night of Passover, from Egypt

                                        adapted from the Passover Haggadah

This won’t do, the Seder
your grandmother cooked
and indexed on
cards to leap down
the generations;
this won’t
do, the Seder sanctioned
by the rabbi, four
cups and mortar-board bread.
No! Your religious
uncle’s orderly
Seder won’t do!
Your Seder must light
the fuse that will ignite
the bomb that will free
the suburban
house of its roof, blasting it
open to stars and moon,
sending you like a letter
of a holy alphabet blown
apart into the night
to roam with dogs, to drink
the soiled birdbath water
in some mayor’s yard, to
scream like a burning
refugee, and knock
on door and door and door
asking is this
my home and
will you let me
eat and are you
my god, my god


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