A biseleh midrash

    Photo Peter Neumann on unsplash Alone in the desert, he waits.  What does he do between one Yom Kippur and the next? Can he hear the goat coming, stumbling across the bare rocks, heavy with misdeeds,  red ribbon trailing in the sand like blood oozing from a wound? And what of the goats from years past? Did he take them in, save them from falling or being pushed over the cliff? Is there a tribe of them waiting too for the new arrival? At last the confused animal stumbles out of the wilderness. "There, there," Azazel says, "Welcome. Unburden yourself. Let me get some water for you to drink."

  Photo Roy Mos on unsplash   The crimson thread between his horns, He stands at the gate and waits, his brother’s blood Staining the air sweet. He wonders how a small goat like him Can bear the congregate sins of twelve tribes, when it takes a large strong bullock to atone for the priest. And why it is he who is doomed to walk into the desert, his head as heavy As his heart, and what it is he must do To procure forgiveness for that people. And how he will find and turn Azazel So they might both come back into the fold And be treasured and loved again. How much wilderness must he endure, How much cold and how much darkness, Erring among bramble and stone. And how much being alone.