ninety-nine names

Rachel, alas, died in the land of Canaan on the way, while there was still some distance to go.       —Genesis 48:7

The women by the tomb of Rachel, like Rachel, knew how to wait. Seven years, then more, waiting for happiness, or to leave, then to return home, waiting for a son, and then another, and in the meantime making use of the time, cleverly, hiding statues of forbidden gods, wresting mandrakes from her sister. He waited too, Jacob. He waited for all the promises and blessings to come true. 

The women around the tomb of Rachel knew a verse in Jeremiah about Rachel’s weeping, about God’s compassion. It might not have worked twice, but it was worth a try.

Rachel died on the road in childbirth. There’s nothing redemptive about that. What she waited for, she didn’t get, and died young.

“Jesus was in the stern, asleep on the cushion” (Mk 4:38).

Lord of waters, king of dreams, lonely light in the dimming fog, our mighty master flinching at drops of cooler waves, turning and seeking warmth.

oh wonder, what worlds he watches in his stormy rest.

why have so little faith? if I could do it again it’d all be different: I’d burn my nets and make my bed with reeds and seashells before I ever woke him again

before I broke the beat of those even breaths

those sighs

Rabbi Akiva, with iron fraying your tender skin, rapturous rebellion, your beloved Rachel selling her hair in exchange for scrolls: you are my favorite. 

Don’t listen, not for a single moment, to Yohanan ben Torta: ‘Akiva, grass will grow from your jawbones; even then, the messiah you crave will not have come.’ 

I will not scold your joy that loved the sword, just briefly, dazzled by one shining star of many, your body just one Rome raked over coals, laid limp and lifeless, your soul 

only one gift, just one of your great gifts to God, your shame at sages’ cowardice one of countless many disappointments, your last words same as ever: the Name is One. 

Lovely, all beautiful as eyes of doves is your patient compassion: the dead man’s child shouts blessings of redemption you taught him with your own mouth; his father’s soul is free. 

Look, you’re coming, bounding over the hills, a stag, fast to see what water’s weakened in the rocks: it was your hardened heart-place, broken and sweetened by heavenly words. 

Radiant and ruddy, no fault in you, letting flash the sacred fire of letters that baffled Moses, which the Holy One crafted with primal light and hidden dark. 

Let everything with breath try to catch one, Each drop thick as foam, this snowfalled evening. Reluctantly, above-the-dome oceans Churn out our way these little flames of fire, Which mock with freedom all those fatalist Constellations. Let down your nets and heave.

But no, no, just know— when the tide recedes It bares a surf of human misery. The cold. It’s raw, it ravages. Not me, No, hear my breath of prayer each turn of key To welcome warmth. Lord keep them warm tonight. I want to confess, say to someone’s face: I’ve never slept outside in a snowstorm. You were cold, and I did not visit you.

But one word from you and it will be done. ‘Let the earth teem with blankets and bonfires, Veterans’ benefits, mental health services.’ One word from you and the sea will break calm, Its icy jetsam fall brighter to earth And no— it’s just fireflies. You could do it.

Then God sent a raven, that scratched the earth to show him how to cover up the exposed remains of his brother. He said, ‘Woe is me! Am I incapable of being like this raven, who has covered the exposure of my brother?’ And he became remorseful. Because of that We ordained for the Children of Israel that if anyone killed a person… it would be as if he killed all the people.

—Qur'an 5:31-2

Let's make something out of nothing.

—Michael Brown

Our accounts must be settled of the four hours He lied dead in the street. Our mealy hearts lacked muscle to re-member What was his: eyes and voice, hands and fingers, A whirring human soul like a freight train passing, The image and likeness of God.

We cannot make him breathe again (never, never, never, never, never) What’s worse, we didn’t even try. We are the hands that unweave wildly What was wound with infinite skill: Tearing through the thinnest nerves, We gather up finely the floss And tear it finer.

Who will save us from this body of death, this vulture vocation, this gun in our hands?

for the children of Gaza

MARY, in Bethlehem

Under my heart, I did my part. You slept. Trust me now: it’s storm and thunder, nothing, stay sleeping, but oh, don’t breathe it in that evil air will wreck and break you

Lord, children are hiding in rocks and tombs [how long? will you forget us forever?] and should I wake him? you tell me—the dreams, will they choke him? will he breathe the blood in?

My soul which magnified, projected light, this blow, oh it shatters me through, my glass it breaks and blows, breathes out a mighty wind like the sound of wings, wild-hunting downwards

no, not my son, dark and lovely, woven deep in that place where I let you wander, my open palms, my steady breath of joy— no not my son—they’ve razed and burned that ground, my sweet black soil, whatever grew in me

when you whispered life, when I laughed out loud, when I loved the promise of (now I see) the murder you planted when I said yes.

[The hoofbeats pass over the cave. A nursing mother won’t be heard there. Her strong arms rock him, still safe, asleep.

—What are you waiting for? There is no verse for this. The riders will go home, and wash their hands.

Well, I love a good break-fast, Stray poppy seeds on slivered eggs, Wine, smoked fish, the sour starch of childhood of blessed memory. We tired-eyed, sore-headed Exhaust the last of the year in longing. We can smell you approaching, dear traveling God, We know too well your wells And water-walls, and our thirst is mad.

"The wind blows where it wants."

--John 3:8

I know you come from God. Below, like a coiled snake, Knots to cut through, no way through. Nothing you do is like us, You undo the ropes, they're tight and good.

But nothing what's not from God gets to God.

That--then--then no hope am I, no thing but clay my clay may move but never breathe no old flesh--me--hard-knotted,  like ropes--I am from here and here is bile and blood.

Not so. At night, in a never was, dark ocean, it will bubble out--a small gasp-- push through water and break life, on you? If the wind reach you, on you, you new, you life, you blood for new veins, you bile in hungry stomach: yes, you.

This, me? This can be me--can be?

How do you not know? I go above on a straightened rope, long, an uncoiled snake. it will not hurt you again; it will take no more life.

For a moment in waking, dry-throated, calm,  hands reaching for creased eyelids, he might have forgotten.

sun-nestled and safe, eyes unopened, mind disjointed, a sweet breath hovering over his face, “wake up…”

that child-joy hunger for mother might stir and nudge him to rise from the dank, the dark

it could have been her hands which led his first steps it could have been her voice which calmed waves of hurt

yes: it is good to wake up like this to a world that loves me and cradled me in its arms

the shadows are gone and fear, disarmed

and the tired, happy God says:

"Jacob said… ‘I have seen your face as though I had seen the face of God.’"

—Genesis 33:10

Brother, I have nothing to say. I washed red red blood off broken skin when with flailing arms you fled to me— small like a stumbling foal, you were half my size and trembled as I cleaned you.

My eyes were hungry true and trusting when, brother, I begged a red red meal and you fed me, without flinching, you stared cold and certain you had what was yours.

I know you loved me with your red red heart that took without asking, that did without thinking, that ran ahead so not to fall behind. What harm can I do you? My red red rage died when you killed it, when with smaller arms you hugged the ground and said: I have nothing to say. No password, no promise. Nothing to say.

He will never love me, sings Alcibiades, Calling another round. He interrupts his way to a second verse: How can water love the empty cup? How can lightning love the rod? (He drinks.)

And not even that— he starts again— He is not the light I catch. He is not the sip I savor.

I’m like the clay that lasts and crumbles, A flame that died half past the night. I: a swelling, stinging wound, a little bug drowned in a brook.

He will never love me, sings Alcibiades, Calling another round.

Praise to the God who would labor eternally to undo a single knot:

Who lays hold of me and soothes, unbraids, splits.

For moments I lie undone

then lace my soul up and run.

I don’t know your patience. You pass by me like a stream over stone. I do not (how do I not?) bore you.

What am I to you?

Stay with me (again, yes, again). Don’t argue. Stay longer, breathe longer on me, lay your hands closer. 

My body asks a heavenly question to which there's no reply. Not one in me— though I host debates, involved discussions, rhapsodies, paeans.

But my flesh is not this unbaptized Agora. I am Cain, and shaking limbs, I am trembling brother.

I am that question: will he live again, will my soul crack, will trees, will winter buds breathe life—

I do not know, I do not know what blood speaks when it groans

I only know the wind that lingers in the cool of day.

Perhaps just for a just man she would die.  No, also for her father. In the time it takes Jephthah’s daughter to be tied to the wood she composes her letter to Isaac. —Your father has nothing to do with mine. As for Dad, it’s not his first kill. It’s true, the outlaws joined him, he went, he took what he wanted. This time he wanted the Ammonites’ land. Perhaps just for a just man you agreed to be bound. Your father sang sweetly sang sweet tears of you, and Hagar’s son. From dawn till dusk he wandered, searching for strangers, seeking a song, to beg: please raise Sodom from the dust. Perhaps just for a just man you would have died. What can I do?  They won’t remember me Like they do you. Dancing and singing, I went out to him. It bent his brow: lying to God is a terrible thing.

“We see here Dante’s… compassion for his master’s scorched face… [but also] the inflexible eye of the judge who, for all of Brunetto’s civic virtues and scholarly accomplishments, sees a man guilty of sodomy, and does not let him get away with it.” —Lino Pertile, “Introduction to Inferno”, The Cambridge Companion to Dante

Don’t let him run alone! He still needs you, Coward, who’d hide behind the curves of law In stone: it’s written. Who cares? You loved him, He who (when you were wintered) sang the thaw Out of borrowed prose, Cicero’s rhythms And a parent’s heart. You’d make love the flaw To flay the skin, sever hands, savage limbs which held you close? I know your blood aches thin at the sight. You do not worship this grim God. God of justice? So, it was a sin. Spy out the glint in the eye of your Guide— There’s a way out. On the last day—just then— This will not be. He’ll emerge like a bride In splendor, storming the gates. The true God Will quake, ascend, the stones he’ll sweep aside