Listen to me, Lord. I have a list.
You said to Abraham:
Go, leave your fathers’ graves! To me,
no word. You promised him,
toothless at ninety-nine, a son. A son
of ours? We laughed. Sixty years
you locked my womb and then
told Abraham you would unbolt it.
To me, no word. Would Abraham
grow fat, shriek, spread his legs
across the birthing stool? Is he the eagle,
I the guttersnipe, that his lordship’s
wedded spouse must overhear the news
hidden behind a tent flap?
Do I exaggerate? You turned your face
to this old woman only
to accuse me of a niggling lie. Note!
The single time you spoke to me.
Do I exaggerate? The promise,
tell me! Where’s the seal? In the snip
off Abraham’s foreskin, but no mark
upon my breasts. And who consulted me
when you bid him burn my son
on Mount Moriah? Still I exaggerate?
Why did your hand-picked Abraham
twice turn me over to the harem of kings?
Am I a cow in heat needing to be mounted?
Why did I not see light in your light?
Why did your truth not set me free?

This article appears in June 22 2009.