Bread of affliction, thin, almost crunchy terror,
reminder we might not see the bathroom for a week
Exists because we were in a hurry
same premise as TV dinner, fast food, carpool lanes, high speed internet
Don’t know why it’s square, or round
should be in the shape of people’s backs
that’s how we had to carry out the dough, on our backs,
unleavened, cooked in the sun
That’s right I said we.
That’s how we look at these things, they happened to us
not to some other group of strangers
I’m still cleaning the dough of my good Egyptian shirt.
Not sure why we can’t eat tortillas, or corn or soda pop.
Ain’t nothing about them in the original text, though if you’ve seen the movie Noah
you know sometimes we stray from the source material.
Yes, I’m talking to you Matzah. I try to dress you up.
Put on cheese and sauce and call you pizza. Hell I even
made a matzah crust quiche once. Took me over two hours
Not exactly in the spirit of not having time to let the dough rise
but by God it was Kosher for Passover.
Oh, Matzah…You fill the end-caps of the super market aisles
on every Jewish Holiday. Hanukkah, sure. Rosh Hashanah, Why not!
Yom Kippur? Ehh we gotta put something up. Get out the Matzah Display.
We forgive them it’s all they know.
I’ve got to admit, sometimes even I get a hankering.
My colon says no but I go to the deli and get a big plate of You brie.
(That’s Matzah Brie if you’re not following along. I know Matzah so well I
just refer to it as you.)
I put you in my mouth and I remember how it was.
I can see the walls of water on either side,
taller than South Beach condominium complexes
I think God even dried out the ground so my feet wouldn’t get muddy.
I can see Miriam ahead. When I reach her I look back and watch
the Egyptian chariots break up like toothpicks. A spear and a helmet float away.
I’m sad those people will not see their families again, but I am free.
When I put you in my mouth I forget about twenty first century convenience
and remember that I am free. Free to embellish your blandness with a nice marinara.
Free to make fun of your effects on my body. Free to not spend every day building
someone else’s pyramids.
You don’t rise. You gave it up so I could.
So I could be free and speak up for freedom.
Every Passover I lift you up in my hands.
I put you in my mouth. My tongue tastes thousands of years of freedom.
You have risen to this occasion.
You make us all rise.