#lavanah

i. you hold a needle between your fingers, mending the skins that your brother tore in half because he tumbled over the sheepfold wall one too many times and scared the sheep because of it. he comes back with a lamb and a knife, looking for your father. (you ask him why he needs a knife. he says God wants a sacrifice. a drop of blood blooms at your fingertip as he speaks--you lick it off and taste the iron in your teeth.) ii. you hold a scrap of cloth between your fingers, picking at the crimson that has embedded itself into the linen because your brother went off to the field with your oldest brother and never said a word. he doesn't come back, but you follow the footsteps in the soil out to where his body is, stiff, unmoving. you run to look for your mother. (she asks you why your hands are stained. you say Abel's dead. the blood drains from her face as you speak--you bite your lip till the blood oozes from your own and tell her to take it instead.) iii. you hold a wedding veil between your fingers, trembling at the cost of the embroidery because your brother--not your brother, now, not your brother, not the one who's dead and gone: not your brother, but a murderer--is leaving home with a mark on his forehead and death in his fist and he says he needs a bride. your father says nothing in return, but walks over to you anyway. puts his hand on your shoulder. squeezes so hard you hear the cartilage pop. you turn your head ever so slightly to look at him. (you ask him why your brother needs a bride. he says he doesn't. your heart stops for a fraction of a second as he speaks--when he is finished your blood is cold, like snow. like ice.) iv. you hold nothing between your fingers, curled up into yourself because your brother--husband, now--took his fill of you on his wedding night when the moon was high and he was drunk and half-awake and you were quietly screaming the world into existence. your thighs still ache and the tears have dried on your cheeks and the sheets are stained from where your virginity bled through the whiteness, but you are quiet. silent. reluctant, almost, to speak, and yet he lies beside you, still as marked as ever. you gather up your courage and turn to look at the open window. (you ask God why you married your brother. He tells you to wait. something rakes across your belly as He speaks--your brother's seed starts to run down your legs and eventually dampens the stains, but the blood sticks to your calves.) v. you hold a bowl between your fingers, saliva burning the corners of your mouth because your husband--he is still your brother, though you prefer to forget in times like these--lay with you again last night, a month from last time, and now your own vomit stares you in the eyes and tells you the frightful truth. 'with child, with child, with child.' your stomach clenches and you hold back the bile in your throat but you can taste it on your tongue, the tongue that went to war and came back beaten bloody and raw. you are tired--too tired--and when your husband comes in from the fields hours later you have already emptied the bowl of its contents and tried to think of some other way to empty your womb. you look at the beam of sunlight filtering in through a crack in the roof. (you ask yourself if you want a child. you say nothing to answer your own question. this time, you distract yourself as your mind speaks--your fingers are peeling and there's dried blood on your cuticles.) vi. you hold a splintered wooden bar between your fingers, bearing down on the birthing stone, your mother smoothing back the hair on your forehead and whispering your name over and over again ('Lavanah, Lavanah, Lavanah,') because you were right and your brother--you cannot decide what to call him now, but you cannot call him by his name--will have a son in a few moments. your mind is feverish and your thighs are weak and you can feel the strength ebbing from your veins, but you have a name for your child. 'Enoch,' you whisper, the syllables like music, like water poured out from a vase, and there is a smile on your lips when the last push brings forth a cry. you cradle your son in your arms, look at him and trace the unblemished skin on his forehead. his father enters. (you ask him if he wants to see his son. he says that it doesn't matter, but he takes him from you anyway. your heart is full as he speaks--all that blood was only thicker than water in the end. at least your son does not court death with rosy cheeks.)