“I’d be no fast-baby,” you said, chewing,
when I asked whether you were born before
or after nightfall, one day in March.
“I’d be no fast-baby,” you said, munching,
meaning you came into this world
out of a hungry mother waiting on you
with your first meal, at your service,
to raucous cheer and twirling graggers,
while children screamed “Booo!”
and your father toasted to life,
giving thanks for yet another son,
born on Purim, festival of concealed revelation,
of suspended rules and adultery,
of massacres prevented and those carried through.
In this year’s Purim spiel, who are you?
You want to be Mordechai, the good guy,
who did not bow down,
but there’s only one role left for you: Haman.
“Booo!”
“I’d be no fast-baby,” you said and belched.
True.