Written by Ash Freeman

I usually sugar my lips so they’re sweet for you but tonight i am coated in salt. kiss me bitter. I have never liked the taste of parsley so this year we use cilantro (it’s all we had in our fridge, anyway). when we sing i move my lips and hum because i’ve never liked the sound of my own voice and yours is so pretty it floods my throat. i want to drink it like manischewitz. let elijah in through the porch door but keep the screen door shut so the bugs don’t get in. i crush a critter with my finger as we talk about the plagues. it twitches for a moment and i try not to look at it as you pour another glass of wine for me. my family does a quick seder so together we’ve had a full bottle of cheap sangria by the time we get to eat.

(i can handle it, the first time i met your family i was so nervous i didn’t realize i was drunk till i got up to pee and almost fell over)

the truth is, i have fallen in love with prose poetry since taking a fiction class, almost like i’ve forgotten the power of a line break. but when i read you my poems you cry and i collect your tears for next year. they remind me of cilantro now (at least that’s better than parsley).

we lasted five days into passover without bread before we made sandwiches. it was just an egg smushed between two pieces of bread, if that makes it any better.