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Haggadah
(for my father)
by Nancy Shiffrin
You adored The Periodic Table, Mendeleyev's vision,
the idea of a predictable universe, gave me
Why I Am Not A Christian for my twelfth birthday.
Told of quotas for Jewish men in science,
you pressed skirts in your father's factory,
sold real estate, delivered mail,
finally taught History to 7th graders.
You are present at this Seder
where the men swagger Disbelief.
A woman tosses a hard-boiled egg. I catch.
We laugh about growing up in New York,
twilight games of stoop ball, hide and seek.
We explain the ritual to my guest,
raised Methodist, now atheist,
who politely tries the Mogen David --
maror, charoses, lambshank, orange --
how everyone's Baba made better gefilte fish.
"Ew...I don't eat that!" A boy crawls
under the table to find the afikhoman.
We open the door for Elijah,
feel the draft, hear the whisper,
award prizes to all the children.
I recall a visit to your classroom.
"What could the Eyptians know
that suggested an afterlife?" you asked;
kids buzzing, shushing, waving hands to answer.
You elaborated on the contents of tombs,
explicated The Book of the Dead.
Your end was arduous:
smashed Tiffany, attack-trained Dobermans,
failure of pancreas, liver, finally heart.
Wife Maria's ghost, in bridal gown, admonishing;
Daughter Beth selling books at auction.
We challenge Ecclesiastes.
"This lament, when first written, was new.
We, intoning its harsh sounds, are perpetually renewed.
That cedar, descended from similar trees,
is not identical to any other.
So what if joy is fleeting?"
We sing: Sholem Aleichem, peace, Dayenu, gratitude;
pledge our surplus to Sova;
light candles for lives lost to injustice;
believe we can pass
the final exam that is The History of Humanity.
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a
cage..."
You chanted Lovelace at bedtime,
gave my Ella Fitzgerald record to a transient Venus.
Why did you call me for help?
Why didn't your doctor know my name?
I seek solace in crashing waves,
inhale the salt breeze, the vast unknowing.
I don't want to forget the snapshots my mother
took of you and me and Helen at Rockaway Beach,
arms wrapped around each other's waists,
tongues stuck out at the camera.
Deep undersea caverns fill.
I gather kelp, pop the bubbles,
my task, this telling.
from her collection of poetry: THE HOLY
LETTERS Booksurge.com 2000
Interested readers can get a
signed, inscribed copy from Nancy at nshiffrin@earthlink.net.
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