Purim

In the biblical story of Queen Esther with my son at bedtime. In the tale, Esther has been quite incredibly hidden within the most intimate folds of the royal Persian court, drowsed in perfect security and privilege at a time when her exiled people were a vulnerable minority in the empire. When a bitter nobleman succeeds in having the Jews slated for public annihilation, Esther’s decision to own and make public her identity, was laden with risk. Her boldness could have cost her her life with nary a blink from King Xerxes. True, within hours her immediate enemy Haman is hung on the grisly gallows he himself erected – as my son said, “That was a twist.”  But interestingly, what Esther gains from the king when she lays her life on the line is NOT peace or victory or security. Rather, she wins permission to fight on the approaching day of massacre. This is Purim. It is kind of a story about permission to fight, permission to violently break against the edicts set against you. What do you need to fight for? Who do you need permission from? Sometimes even in just asking to fight, we face death. What is worth perishing for?

A Purim Prayer

Water pools at my ankles while ground
caves away in smooth chunks.
No resistance on the butterscotch horizon,
the four pm sleepiness is upon us.

I settle as you pass, no closer no farther.
Dialing down, recalibration.
It will take too much time and break our hour.
If I perish, I perish.

I must be learned.
The needle casts backward and flays the invisible stitch,
bleeding the club-footed dependencies.
Water and blood.

Blink. In death or restoration.
Warm wind swirling.