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Click hereI wonder about Egypt then,
about whether the lamb's blood soaking into the stone doorjambs
attracted flies,
and stuck them there, waiting for the Angel of Death, like the rest.
I think about whether the mark stayed Technicolor red
Or if, in the morning, it looked like any other brown smudge.
Mostly, I think about the women,
about the latter sons,
Who knew that they were safe,
their hearts open to the wound
of a single miscounted door.
And of the men who cut into the lamb's throat
took their pots of blood
not knowing how much they would need
to appease the Angel's empty eyes;
If they would have blood enough to shield their own house, their neighbor's.
I wonder how many used a brush, or a fistful of reeds
to spread it as the meat roasted.
They were slaves,
exhausted,
making bricks without straw
in the simmering delta –
Most probably just used their hands,
blood and grit staying in the creases of their palms.
Who could eat that night as commanded?
Who could sleep, knowing the Angel 's fingers would scrape against every door?
Trusting that a god who would not even tell them his name,
Who kept them in chains through nine other plagues
Would have mercy on a splash of life in the darkness?
I wonder about those men
with the deep stains in crescents around their nails
and tracing the swirl of tributaries on the pads of their fingers
About the weight they carried to the door and back to bed.
their pacing to check through the night
on the sticky salvation smeared into the stone.
Those men, who sacrificed sleep
with all the other things they gave,
The first sounds they would have heard as dawn burned the Nile,
the proof of those they were commanded not to save.
Dayenu, we say,
It would have been enough.
But it will never be enough,
For the women and the latter sons
to thank,
to break bread,
to have home
the men who spread the blood over our doors,
Who slaughter their lambs
For the first-born sons who sleep,
apple-cheeked,
on sheets covered with cartoon stars
Their breath stirring hair too fine to save their pink scalps from the sun,
The men who hold life enough to shield us all in their hands
sacrifice it on thirsty, uncaring stone
For the first-born sons who sleep,
their morning stubble unfolding like fiddleheads,
noses buried in the napes of our necks,
Every exhalation dripping down behind the crease of where our ears meet our jaws.
Dayenu, for the Angel.
Dayenu for the shield of blood.
Dayenu for the peaceful meal, the night of sleep.
But not for the men who save more of us than they save first-born sons.
We have no words for them but the ones that ring like wooden bells.
No way to sustain them but the comped diner hashbrowns from the next booth over.
No sigil of our thanks but a loop of yellow ribbon, magnetized to make
The worst possible version of a blood-sealed door.
That's why it is a season, not a moment.
Passover.
Pass over us one more night.
Dayenu to let the men sleep like latter-born sons.
I enjoy an iconic narrative. In the words of a skillful poet they become more than a dry bible story. This was an enjoyable read.
Thank you for at least diverting attention from Game of Thrones , Mad Men , Dexter etc modern day telesoaps to a hoary , ancient legend ! 5-ed.