Passover

(working it out slowly)

Blood still wet on the lintels,
the house slowly burns away.

Bare feet covered in ashes;
spirit perched in forest eaves.

***

There is never enough time to tell you
precisely what I mean. No, there is never enough place,

or no, I don’t know what I mean. Take this spark,
this child, you probably should have been. I am sifting

through the aroma of burned, charred remains,
the tattered fabric of genesis melded

dark beneath your skin. I have watched your hand slip inside
your collar countless days. Tell me what it means.

Do these clothes chafe you? Or does your skin
need reaffirmation every day?

***

Snags of trees moored like ghost ships
along a farmland stream.

You strike the match and light the lantern. There is a sound
like a rush of flames.