Valerie Bacharach: Passover

So where, dear Nathan, my son, have you gone?
Your voice eclipsed, insubstantial 
as gauze.

I lay a Haggadah by a chair,
unoccupied. 
Unearth my Seder plate,
place upon it shank bone, egg, parsley,
bitter herbs. My bitter tears.

Once I braided god in the sinews of my body,
armor against pain.

Once I leashed god to my fragmented heart, 
constant taunt that I still lived.

Do you look for my face in the nether world?
Search the blue emptiness between clouds,
the space between drops of rain?

Vanquish the past.

I want no messiah, no Elijah
in his chariot trailing fire.

Bequeath me a tempest
to hurl open the door,
make wine shudder in its cup,
return to me in the fulsomeness
of your fierce beauty. 

--

Author’s note: My son came home from rehab on the first night of Passover 12 years ago. It’s never been the same for me since.

Valerie Bacharach is a poet and writer who lives in Pittsburgh.

Copyright 2022 Valerie Bacharach