He doesn’t remember me holding him
listening to his salty tears on the night I saw auras.
No recollection at all of us being together
there in her room, as I have.
It is her light shining on this mist, his fog,
and this defence of love,
as he spills more wine,
4 cups, splatters more hatred,
hits his head against the wall,
staggers old bones and bitterness
over his Passover egg
listening to his drunken instructions:
on how to win, battle, kill, hate.
Yes, I know who I am.
I’m the sweet apple mixture of his eye.
I fight darkness every day and shine
and shine, and again say “Shine”,
because it is her light on this mist,
writing our Haggadah,
and my Song of Songs
written and unwritten
on love and freedom,
unleavened,
when I say “Shine”,
her light on this mist.
