A Literary Magazine in Support of the Jewish Community
The Bread of Affliction
Why is this year different from all other years? Despite brain fog, I
remember the first night of Passover for once, but the store is out
of matzo, and—oh no—the smallest bag of flour barely fits in my
granny cart. Back home, I scoop some into a bowl, set the timer for
18 minutes, and add water. More water. The dough sticks to my
hands. I wash them. Been doing that a lot—a lamb won’t save us
this time. More flour. Now the rolling pin is stuck. Knuckles
aching, I scrape it. Finally, the dough is flat. The oven? Still cold.
This matzo won’t be kosher. Exhausted, ready to cry, I slump
into my recliner. The timer beeps and beeps until I rise.
Blessed is the one who brings forth bread from the earth.
Come August, my doctor calls—cursed are the white blood cells
that shepherded my mother’s side through plague. Memorizing
foods to avoid, I grieve. Days downtown become desert
expeditions, yet there’s no promised land, no cure, just desert,
taunting me with pizza and soup dumplings. In my colorful new
planner, a reminder to buy matzo-style squares. The bread of
gluten freedom.
David Elliot Eisenstat
David Elliot Eisenstat’s poems have appeared in Midway Journal, The Pierian, Rust & Moth, and elsewhere. A poetry editor for Variant Lit, he lives in Brooklyn. You can find out more at www.davideisenstat.com/poetry/.
