We break the matzah in half, hetzi,
Before we endeavor to tell the tale
Because our hearts need to be broken
open, pierced (as if by an arrow, a hetz)
Just a crack, enough for the winedrops
of redemption to drip their slow
Fast way in and remake us
Whole.
It hurts -- this breaking
And our growing knowing
Of the broken.
We are opening to oni, to only
To lack and black and a flat lifeless snack
Whose lines remind us of the whip on the back
We are opening to endless generations
Of running and hiding even while thriving
Bekhol dor vador
More and more
pain until it’s ma-roar
Bitterness that seeps into our core
Until --
Never again, please no more.
But then we begin to open the door
Not just to the needy
but also to Elijah
Not just to oni
but also to Dayenu,
Not just to lack and never,
but also to ever
Enoughness.
To the possibility that the pain --
Like maror in a Hillel sandwich
Like matzah in a Hallel sandwich--
To the possibility --
Nay, to the knowledge, now clear as fiery hail --
that the pain is always held
In the embrace of an outstretched arm
Whose capacities don’t stop at ten
Fingers on the hands
But keep multiplying, powerful
And loving with no end.
Maybe we break open the heart
To take our part in this embrace
To make our heart a part of this embrace
To have two halves that can have
And hold the old wounds
And become whole through the holding,
And come to know All through the holding.
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