On Elijah, the Moon, and Desert Crossing…
I wrote this Passover poem years ago.
Revisiting it again this year, in the midst of our current desert crossing, it finds new layers of relevance.
May we trust in time and the mysterious unfolding.
[Please translate or personalize “God” any way that works for you.]
I
L’Chaim
Says the Old Man
Raising the 1st cup
To the empty chair
Where God sits.
I’m so glad you could make it.
II
L’Chaim
Says the Old Man
Raising the 2nd cup
To the beam of moonlight
Bright and full.
I’m so glad you could make it.
Old Friends.
You were with me.
When I left Egypt
For the desert
Abandoning the safety of a roof
And food
The familiar and uncomfortable bondage
Of daily toil.
God, that was terrible!
Egypt yes… but the desert!
With its barren eternity
Mirages of hope
Abandoned
Again, and again, and again.
We were led, not by you moon,
But by our sand-stripped tongues
Searching the air
For one unfathomable drop
Of nourishment.
There are no rains here.
To soak. To soften. To yield.
There are no reins here.
To direct. To guide. To control.
There is no reign.
No sovereignty. Authority. Or law.
Remember the night
Just a few months in
When I stole seeds from our messy store
And sprinkled them to the winds
Stomped my feel all night
Wailing prayers and curses
At your damn reflective light.
Make them Sprout, God Damnit!
Moon, you tide-hoarder
Make them sprout!
Make them… please… sprout.
I didn’t know it wasn’t time yet.
I didn’t know I could trust you yet.
Mad sweats
Frozen still nights
And the wind,
The hollow wind tearing through my insides
Sand-scouring organs leaving them tattered,
Hole-ridden.
Then holy.
Then whole.
I took the reins. Sure of where I was going. Tally Ho! Onward to our future. I knew the place. Knew the plan. I knew where every brick would be placed. Every fruit tree and shade tree and well. I knew the path to what I, and the whole tribe wanted. Must want...
I didn’t know the way.
They wanted to return.
Until they forgot
What home feels like.
It wasn’t until we wandered, truly wandered!
Gave up hope
And delivered our futures
To the ruthless unknown
That we found our place.
It was nothing like I imagined…
III
L’Chaim.
I raise the third cup.
Bring it crashing down on the edge of the table.
Spotting the walls, my clothes,
Gathering in pools under my feet.
Silent shards swim transparent
In blood deep saccharine sweet plagues.
God, you selfish prick!
Why must our freedom rely on death and suffering?
You took their crops, children, light…
Because of the hatred, fear and ignorance of their leader.
Are we responsible for the actions
Of leaders that will not heed our pleas?
Where is responsibility? Retribution?
At what cost?
Yes, “Let my people go.”
The chosen people… These, my people,
The people who choose
Learn the lesson of Lot.
Don’t look back
At the people who could not leave,
Drowning.
There is nothing to offer the dead,
But our footsteps in the vast desert
Signing promises
With each unfair breath
To live.
Because we were given that choice.
I look back.
I offer my salt tears.
And shattered libations.
You are not my enemies.
IV
L’Chaim
Says the Old Man
Raising the fourth and final cup
The light bright and distant
Behind his eyes, departing
The moon has moved on to her next engagement.
The glass, in drowning,
Brings darkness.
Sleep.
The veil of mystery,
Rising and falling of his mighty, fragile frame,
The empty chair,
The empty chair.
