Howard Prosnitz
Seder
Out from my grandfather's grace
and into his garage,
smelling of oil and grease,
my father pushed me and punched me
for faltering the four questions
at the Seder.
Years later
the Angel of Death,
not loath to answer,
riddled his body
with cancer.
And I, a Seder survivor,
remember both beatings:
my father's plague
and the angel's rage.
Bio
I am a journalist and teacher living and working in New Jersey. My poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Journal of NJ Poets, Mudfish, Main Street Rag, Red Wheelbarrow, and Paterson Literary Review.