And their libations: half a hin of wine for each bull, a third of a hin of wine for each ram, and a quarter of a hin of wine for each lamb. This is the ascent-offering of each month in its month throughout the months of the year.
The hin is an ancient Hebrew unit of liquid measure
equal to about one and a half gallons, or
five point seven liters if you swing that way.
No one (and I speak definitively for all humanity)
uses the word hin anymore. Even spellcheck
wants me to change it to his which
brings up its own set of problems.
Bring back the hin I say. I want to stop by
my local drinking hole (that’s a metaphor)
and order a hin-full of whiskey. I promise
I won’t drink it all at once. I’ll even share it
with my buddies (of every gender.)
Who wants a sixteenth of a hin I’ll ask them
and some of them will be confused, but grateful
as, whatever a hin is, it wouldn’t cost them anything.
And as long as we’re bringing things back
how about the mules? I’m referring, of course,
to the mules that used to live in the old mule farm
near my house which they keep threatening
to build condominiums on. Enough with housing!
Bring back the mules! I have called for the
bringing back of the mules in another poem
but they’re not back yet so there, clearly,
is still work to be done.
I’ve got a hin-full of patience for the lack
of mules in my neighborhood… and all the
good things we used to have that went away.