Old Bones

Clicking away, slamming doors in that robe of Ephod, the Wise One tipped his kipa.

And I,

I told the tale anyhow.


Yaroset, secondhand, still tastes sweet.

But when that friend,

Refused to share the Matzoh Ball Soup,

Recipe of our ancestors,

I walked away spitting horseradish,

through bitter teeth.

I did not stop to ask why, carrying my Chametz on my back like an old woman carrying her bundle of tinder.

Breaking boughs,

Way down in Egypt land.




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