Pesach Morning

The alarm goes off
I am flattened in bed
And in need of thickening
Or perhaps some shortening
To mix in and congeal
And galvanize my individuation
Un-dividing me
Assimilating my seemingly disparate elements
Into a whole
Upon whence I will rise
I will be “done”
I need you to stick a fork in me
So I can take a left or a right
And stop plowing ahead
Clearing a path that was covered in snow for a reason 

I am not fully baked
Not even half-baked
Inert on the cold linoleum floor
Coaxing my subpar yeast to stir
Lazy yeast
“I’m not hungry
I don’t feel like eating
I’m too tired
It’s not the right sugar
It’s too sweet
It’s not sweet enough
The molecules aren’t arranged properly
You can’t make me” 

I am passed over
I did not paint lamb’s blood on my door
I did not ask to be chosen
Yet my yeast has vanished
Without whom I cannot rise
I am unleavened
No agents with which to stretch me
Puff me
Expand me
Power me
Breathe life into me
The agents of the Angel of Death have absconded with my chametz
And I scoured the whole house for it
The ovens are clean and empty
Even of ghosts
But it’s gone
And with it my agency
No room in the budget for a squad of detectives
Or even a lonely private eye
To track it down 

Down I will lay
Cross-eyed in my one-track mind
Unlengthened and unshortened
Dividuated and attenuated
Benighted and unlightened
Thin and flat
Pinned inside the sheets