Our
best times were in Egypt, when we fled.
I
spoke a foreign tongue, and , yes, I prayed
to
Isis, screaming till my insides bled.
then
sat outside in heat and blowing sand
and
watched my baby, mindless as he played,
the
goddess his protector in this land.
And
when I healed, the old man finally turned
and
touched me, and beneath her moon we made
our
second baby. Oh, I thought we could
stay
there forever. I was still a child.
*
One
day he came to me. He shambled, old,
into
the kitchen where I kneaded bread
to
make my family's dinner. When he said
It's
safe, we can go home, that's when I died.
The
baby in my womb still drank my blood.
The
old man smiled. He always was so kind,
his
touch at night more gentle than a bird.
I
tried to tell him, but my tongue was wood
and
Isis did not answer when I called.
The
fatherless one, though, he rose and stood
alone
amid his toys as if those words
had
killed him too. How could he understand
what
angels' whispering voices in my head
had
always told me : he was not my child.
We
had not run from Herod but from G-d.
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