Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 8, Exile

In the beginning. . .
was the word

 The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it. Psalms 68:11

viii the Exile

 

She thought of Rachel weeping for the babies,

     her deep, convulsive sobs.  She thought

of every mother who found room at the inn.

 

The toddler, teething, the son with untamed

     hair, the one at his mother's shoulder

she flashed eyes with in passing, impaled on

 

a Roman short sword.  Across Sinai's endless

     barrens, weary, bone-sore, her child gone

inside a dream, bundled warm, she thought

 

of Rachel weeping, inconsolable, in her tomb

     at Ramah, the way home, bitter cold cry

the night hawks cried.  Past stone obelisks

 

sentried along the Nile: Ra, Osiris, marble cats,

     jewel-clad, smoke-fed owls, she heard

the wind's ceaseless, restless spirit. And at last,

 

home in Galilee, nursing her own before an

     enflamed hearth, she wondered what

a disembodied infant soul must weigh, in

 

the balance memory apportioned, light

     as shadows her lemon tree laid across

the tiles, elongated as the sun descended,

 

a chill she moved through.   So many bore

     their babies long after death, she thought, as

Rachel did, her daughters' daughters and theirs.