Passover in a Year of Modern Plague

Passover in a Year of Modern Plague

"What's true of all the evils in the world is true of the plague as well. It helps men to rise above themselves”.  (Albert Camus, ‘The Plague’, June 1947).

Blood

In a time of plague,

 I watch the carnivals of hate

roll by, but won’t participate.

I shop. But fixed on red alert,  

I hide behind my Purim mask, now

sanitised; advise the salesman

that my purchases are few.

Frogs

Perhaps something cooling

for a head that’s spawned

heaped coals on fire and

other stuff that’s extra soothing

for a throat shot through with

knives.

Lice

Once, my distracted mind insists,

on days like this, an ancient

king’s wise fool dared throw

the apple of his eye,

not on him, but at a mystic

man of science’s brow.

A-tishoo! A-tishoo! I can’t

buy a tissue. I must lie down.

Flies

Here’s time for holy

men to find martyrs many,

but forbidden to heal by touch,

their rooms are deserts –

lie arid, empty.

Pestilence

A Catholic Father clings to Jesus;

 What’s sickness, mine? What’s gone

amiss? Rav Mazuz bursts gay

folks’ pride. ‘Your way is community suicide’. 

                    

Boils

Blind granddad is a tailor,

he sews at Alum Rock.

Sleek rats squat on his windowsill

tho’ he’s cut from finest cloth.

Hail

‘Hail’ – which may also

speak ‘farewell’ - come near –

but not too close – we’re all in this

together - but apart.

 All borders shut. So let us,

rather, gather at safe

distance on our balconies.

There, we whistle, stomp and

cheer ‘hurrah’ in humble thanks

to those who work to save us now.

Locusts

No swarm of guests to lean

left about my heirloomed table.

No rosemary for remembered rue,

Instead, twice dipped, our new enslavement

will be forever etched in lineal pain.

Darkness

Sand burdened winds scythe

unwary heads.  Forsaken

streets expose unblinking eyes atop

shuttered public places, sacred spaces

that shed unwonted tears as mustard-muddy

clouds scud by.

Killing of the First Born

No blood-streaked lintel, no

fragrant hyssop helps. God’s

messenger arrives to take his tithe.

Once only a kid, an enfeebled lion

learns he is to roar no more,

his work on earth is done.

So too, here, is mine.  

© Natalie Wood (24 March 2020)