Back home in Nazareth,

my family and I

relax after dining,

sated with food and new memories

of the Passover festival.

The songs of the Levite choir

still ring in my ears.

My soul carried them with me

like waterskins,

refreshment for

the long journey home.

The glint in my father’s eye

reminds me of

the golden incense holder

I’ve heard men speak of.

I have never glimpsed it

from the Court of Women.

Pity that we’re not permitted

to see the holy sacrifices

for ourselves.

Though, truth be told,

I would rather not watch

an animal have its throat slit.

Still.

“You know, Father,” I say.

“Next year at the Passover,

I believe I’ll enter the Court of Israel

to witness the sacrifices firsthand.”

Father almost drops his cup of wine.

“What?”

“They say a woman did so once before.

Besides, am I not as much

a child of God as any man?”

Father’s eyes flash toward Mother.

“Speak to your daughter!”

Mother gives me her sternest look,

for Father’s benefit,

then, when he turns away,

we share a secret smile.

Later, as we clean the cooking pots,

she tells me,

“I see what joy it gives you