Hunger Strike, Benjamin Rose (September 2026/Elul 5786)

 

Hunger Strike

Blood is on the table, the mouths are choking

But I'm going hungry…
—Temple of the Dog

 

Offer me all the blandishments of Spain, the lure
            Of wine poured out like blood in gold carafes,
And platters heaped with pomegranates, dates, and pure
            Delicacies. Instead of epitaphs,
The bitter herbs of faith and truth, let me compose
            Delicious panegyrics, and report
From moonlit gardens where the breath of Heaven blows
            That all is well within this heathen court.
Turn me aside from stricken thoughts of home, where Ruth
            Once gleaned amid the rough Judean hills,
As Layla's warm caresses, and the raven pith
            Of love, her lustrous serpent-tresses, kills.
Offer me slaves anointed and perfumed, with soft
            And silken fingers fit to make men moan
Like lutes; such artistry they have perfected, craft
            In singing, stroking from sad flesh a tone
To chase all cares away. Then bring me bread and oil,
            Meat flecked with blood, the sizzling fat of swine
Salted and cured and marbled by the butcher's toil,
            And served beside the well-aged milk of kine.
All this of course, besides your tolerance of my life,
            You would extend in welcome to your guest,
And if he should recite your creed, or take a wife
            Among the Edomites, that would be best.
But in the gutters, where the blood of Jacob runs,
            And those who would not gorge on gods are driven
To earn their beaten wage as peddlers, the sons
            Of Avram groan. Can I, who have been given
Great wealth and power, and all the passing privilege of
            Snow-pale complexion, golden hair, be stained
By such deluded lusts, while Zion's distant dove
Cries out to see her children so detained?
            Happy the man who sleeps secure beneath his vines,
Whose love for Abigail or Shira spurns
            The languorous songs of Afnan dipped in gold; who twines
No dream-like hopes to drink with Mary, turns
            Aside from all her tinseled tables and her meek
Submissive gaze. For though her choirs delight
            And censer teems with spices, she has slain the weak
And slaughtered generations in the light
            Of her expansive dogma from the East. At least,
Never forget, in this more peaceful day,
            That once she claimed we took her children's blood in feast,
For which she burnt us at her autos-da-fé.