Passover

Linda Pastan

1971

I

I set my table with metaphor:

the curling parsley—green sign nailed to the doors

of God’s underground; salt of desert and eyes;

the roasted shank bone of a Pascal lamb,

relic of sacrifice and bleating spring.

Down the long table, past fresh shoots of a root

they have been hacking at for centuries,

you hold up the unleavened bread—a baked scroll

…

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