Joshua Cohen - Witz

Indoors quick — and hide.

We have been warned, and warned again. Tonight, the only obliging outward sign, the lone telltale, is the newest moon returned. There are no more fillings of the sky, than usual. This moon filling itself with light, which is our essence, then this waning moon, waxing tidal death — the month the bodies, which had sunk then risen then sunk again, are consumed in full, the last one of them swellswallowed; treyf fishes stuffed to the gills freezing up onshore at the edge of the ice’s lap into open water, sharks with frost for fins skittering on the slick, flopping whales their flukes encased in hoar. As for the waters above, they’re drowning the stars — the dark to constellate the breaching of the astral ship, Argo Navis sinking, the ark of Noah, the vessel of Isis and Osiris…in our tradition, another New Year yet again. Vernal, and so unleavened. Unseeded, the spring of spring. Ahead into redemption. Nothing to sneeze at. A season of libels and of passings. And dadadadada. Of the seder, too, which is the order: wine, wash then green; wash and nosh. Fress your ess on nothing. But before, the streets split open, wheat that’s also ice springs up from the ground. A feather is plucked from its hide. A candle’s rolled. All that’s leavened becomes involved in an arcane exodus of sorts, sold to this goy hustling out of state for maybe less than nothing. A promise. Only a word. Equinox schquinox — what else could be its meaning, how to question winter still? Once each crumb is counted. Once each bread is broke. Swallow your tongue. Eat your teeth. Speak up.

It’ll be a fast plague. Swift, without mercy, a cold bloodless slaughter. As always, all will come too quick — is there any plague worth its lot of salt that doesn’t, that won’t, that just stands there like a pillar? Questions again, this being the season — the most pressing of which the least passing, the questions silent, implied, innumerable and so, numinous. As we sit at the Passover table topped with the yomtov tablecloth as yet unstained and the polished silver and the plate with the bone and the egg boiled hard in its mother’s own water, observe, the youngest among us should ask the oldest the following: how is this night different from all other nights? And how, for that matter, are nights different from Night? Not anymore they’re not. Have you been outside lately, you better believe it for yourself.

Then, the oldest should ask the youngest thusly: which son are you, and which not? I don’t know, all of them, none. Never again a time for resolutions. Never to begin anew. They should ask the youngest Him, which son will you be…and then — are you the One who doesn’t even know how to ask…what is a question? How to answer. Will you be at all. Or will you opt out. Don’t you want to be. When you’re all grown up to dead. Their seder to be interrupted — libelous, the matzah weeps blood. The seat at the head of the table is empty and will be forever, you’ll get used to it, I’m hoping. Think on it, Ben, my boy, my boychick, knowing that to think’s to remember, just as much. In the beginning, they died, them and their questions with them, and now they’re to begin dying again. When does it end? How? Never why. Who’s able to answer let alone think anymore with such moony racket? Remember me kindly when I’m gone.

It’s a spring in which nothing’s in season. Plant the ice, reap a frost. Unless we hoard hope, we’ll go hungry come the winter of winter. Ravenously, we’ll eat crow. Then God shall drink the air from thy mouth. A going within to go without drash…that’s the best we can expect: an exhortation to introspection, an offer soulsearching, tasked to the spirit; a custom, a commandment, a mitzvah…a recipe even, we’ll take what we’re given, we’re served — to go down into the barest cupboard in the deepest recess of the emptiest heart, to slop around for what, for mealy meaning, a pareve purpose hosted under this willfull, whirlwind moon; this lunation of denial, of limitation, waxed with worshipful privation, waned of empty reflection, empty of reflection…and so, where does that leave us?

Tonight, it’s the first of the first month, or of the seventh, depends on how you keep up, if and to what end. As this season features the fast of the firstborns, in memory of the dead kinder of Mitzraim, which was Egypt, and so of its Pharaoh and his sun, one day and its night in memoriam, tenthplagued, the FBs — young and old as if they still have a survival to prove; stepspooked, careful around the mirrored corners, migrained desperate, weak already, emptied — they fast almost the entire month, though not alone: in flagrantly mundane disregard of the law prohibiting excessive fasting, which archaic rabbinic ruling holds that such action serves only to lessen the holy, a new law is proposed, a ruling terrestrially lesser voted upon and approved with astonishing haste, which in its unanimity and the rarity of its passing speed seems as if made with the tacit approval of the Divine in us all; every day this month — which is known by the name of Nisan, meaning First Fruits in a language lost — is designated as a national fast day, as optional as life, as proclaimed by President Shade in an address from the Capitol to a joint session of Congress, which is now per an earlier ruling to be referred to as the Sanhedrin, exclusively and with all due respect: Der at one flank, the Doctors Tweiss become the Soygens General behind; this in support of UN (United Nudniks, it’s witzed) Resolution number doesn’t matter, appreciatively drafted then proposed by one Mohammed Arbas, the new delegate from the reformed State of Palestein, and cousin to its ruling class, the usurping Abulafias; a fast to be observed as per tradition inherited, in deference to religious precedent, from sundown to sunset, with those underage, pregnant, and/or suffering from medical conditions too agonizingly tedious to address personally, those abstaining acting on the advice of their personal physicians on the dole, and those who just don’t want to go hungry the whole month exempted, of course, forbidden from the option of indulging in the restrictive holy. Supermarkets are swept, mopped, then shuttered, themerestaurants shut, their burners cooled, fryers shushed; lonesome servicestations and truckstops since last moon their windows festooned with grabs of plastic grapes infused with Xmas lights aglow, darkened; everything’s unplugged, the water turned off or frozen in the pipes to explode; many take the opportunity to go out of business, invoke for themselves the broke of hope Chapter numbered Eleventh, go boardedup, condemned, especially if not kosher — the price for appropriate certification, a hechsher, being prohibitive due to current lack of a rabbinic council or other administrative body, that and the bribery involved; most everyone wanting to keep up with their friends the Joneses now the Jabotinskys, to look good for the neighbors, setting an example for the Development and their kind, they stay indoors, lock their cabinets, nail up their crannies and nooks, knot up their fridges, chain and bolt ovens and stoves, to feast on this fasting that — as we’re reminded in an address by President Shade, as scripted by Der and Doctor Abuya with the Nachmachen consulting — directs us away from the wants of the body, all those functions corporeal, to focus instead on the needs of the soul; though the knifesharp, teethsharp pangs the President feels later this first day, around 1700, wedgewoodtime, fineboned chinatime, serve only to remind him how famished he truly is, and, too, of the surplus stock hidden amid the basement cubs of his mansion: the store in its recesses, overwebbed like the manifested back of a bill outdated — enough foods, flashfrozen at outlandish taxpayer expense, to last any Shade and his First Family consecutive terms bounteously in excess of the old legal limit.