What more can be said about plagues?
About oppression?
About Trump?
The story cannot continue
Without a new narrative;
Without a revision;
A grand paradigm shift.
After all,
The blood on our door posts
Was intended for only one night.
In death’s place
Was commanded
Creation’s bond
Within Holy letters.
We have been enacting,
Re-enacting,
A partial liberation from bondage
Over, and over, and over again.
After all,
How far can Eight Days’
Celebration take us
As we “come to Pharaoh,”
Compared to
“The Name” unspoken,
Yet breathed within every breath?
Even creation Herself
Comes wrapped, and possible,
Within each shard
Contained in no-thing,
Held deep within silence
Until love becomes
The Occupier
Of every tongue;
The balm
Of every word.
