A Poem for Passover by the Editor

Fast of the Firstborn

Shmuel ben Moshe HaLevi

Lightheadedness 

Irritability 

Difficulty concentrating 

Weakness 

(and of course) 

Hunger. 

These are the symptoms of the brief 

deliberate shunning of nourishment

I endure each year at this time.

Unpleasant?  

Yes, but a reminder 

I still live.

Much less unpleasant 

than what happened 

to the firstborn males of the Egyptians 

all those millennia past 

on that night 

my great-many-times-over-grandfather 

was spared the cold sword of 

The Angel of Death.

The blood of the lamb 

streaked across the lintel 

of my ancestor’s slave shack 

informed Death to pass over 

its frightened occupants 

cowering and clutching at their ears 

to drown out the screams of horror 

emanating from the abodes of the Egyptians. 

From that moment on 

every firstborn male 

in every generation 

would belong to God 

and must be redeemed 

with blood or sacrifice 

every anniversary 

of that awful event. 

Tonight I will spill out a little of my wine 

in memory of those who were slaughtered 

enemies though they may have been

and invite all who are hungry

to join me in celebration of the Passover.

After a day without food

the bitter herbs will taste sweet.