*This is a reprint as it previously appeared in Minyan.

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.

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David Elliot Eisenstat (he/him) has poems published or forthcoming in THINK, The Pierian, and Rust & Moth, among others. A poetry editor for Variant Lit, he lives in Brooklyn.

Website www.davideisenstat.com/poetry
Bluesky: @eisenstat.bsky.social‬