Somewhere in the sand
between the Sea and Sinai
there is a pile of rocks, a memorial.
Every year I stumble against it
trip over it
and the sharp stones hit a nerve.
I’ve only lately finished the matzah
only lately begun picking the soft white manna
from the grocery shelves again
enjoying my freedom
I trip over those damned rocks again.
They recall all those souls, ground to gravel
Reduced to ash.
I cannot bear to think of them
And I cannot bear to forget them, either.
So I sit on the sand
re-stacking the stones.