"Eve" by Raquel Partnoy

for Women of the Bible Edition

Please review our general 
submission guidelines

 

 

The Leper's Wife

 

     "The leper, who has been infected, — his clothes shall be rent, his hair shall be left disheveled,
     and he shall cover over his upper lip; and he shall call out, 'Impure! Impure!'  As long as he is infected,
     he shall be impure; he shall dwell alone, outside the camp of his residence."

                                                                                      Leviticus 13:45-46

 

 

My husband is a leper.

The smell of ruptured putrid boils

That cover his decomposing flesh

And infect his rotting skin, pale yellow and splotched white,

Repulses

Even the flies.

 

My husband is a leper.

The bell around his neck clanks and clinks,

Warning all who might come near,

As if he were an ox that gores.

Dressed in a rent tunic of threadbare sackcloth,

"Impure!  Impure!" he lisps as he limps;

His hair, disheveled and uncut, grows wild,

As does his scraggly beard.

 

My husband is a leper.

Children, crueler than the dogs that growl at him,

Throw stones and spit;

"Filth! Pig!" they snarl, "Go back to your cesspool!"

 

But I,

I chase away the children and the dogs;

I accompany my husband as he inches along,

Supporting him, walking with him arm in arm.

 

Each morning I wake up early, go to the village well

And bring back fresh, cool water to wash the pus

From his legs, his arms, his back, his face, his eyes,

Then bind his wounds with clean, white gauze.

 

Because his fingers — disjointed and swollen — 

Cannot hold a fork or knife,

I feed my husband as if he were a child,

As he sits in the dust and ashes.

 

And my fingers have grown nimble and skilled

When I search his hair for lice by candlelight,

Night by night.

 

"Do not stay with me," my husband stammers

As I scrape his boils with a potsherd;

"Give me up, live a better life," he begs.

 

"Do not ask me to leave you," I answer

And hold his hand in mine;

"Wherever you go, I will go,

Wherever you lodge, I will lodge.

Do not speak as one of little faith;

You will yet heal, I know this.

 

Your legs and thighs will be whole again,

Pink marble pillars on pedestals of brass.

You will pick me up in your arms,

Strong and tanned,

Glittering like bronze scepters with gems of topaz,

And dance with me, swirling me around.

You will leap from cliff to cliff, from crag to crag,

Like a gazelle on mountains of frankincense.

You will build us a house of polished ivory overlaid with sapphires,

And plant us vineyards and orchards and gardens of spices;

We will go down together to gather our lilies

That grow in our bed of sweet herbs."

 

My husband weeps when I comfort him,

When I place his head on my lap

And gently stroke his mangy hair,

When I bend over and kiss his forehead, his eyelids.

I whisper to him that he is like a cluster of henna,

A bag of myrrh that lies between my breasts.

 

"And one day," I promise him,

"One day I will bear you a child."

 

My husband is a leper.

But I will never leave him,

I will never abandon

This husband,

Whom I love,

Israel.

 

 

 

Orpah's Sister

 

"If a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall do him no wrong.  The stranger who
sojourns with you will be unto you as one of the native-born among you, and you shall love
him as you love yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt; I the Lord am your God."

                                                                                        (Leviticus 19:33-34)

 

"And they lifted up their voice and wept again;  but Orpah kissed her mother-in-law good-bye,
while Ruth cleaved unto her."

                                                                                 (Ruth 1:14)

 

 

My cousin, Ruth, left Moab last year to go to the Land of Judah

And never came back.

My father is furious, "I told that girl to forget

Her dead husband, forget his family,

Forget everything he taught her.

And why cleave to an old woman, a mother-in-law, a foreigner?

What kind of future can she have?  To glean the fields of a stranger?

Stubborn girl, why didn't she listen to me?"

Mother never mentions her niece's name any more

And pretends she doesn't miss her.

At night, lying in bed, I wonder what she is doing

And if she still loves me.

 

My sister, Orpah, too, nearly left us last year.

But she came back.

"Orpah was always more practical," my mother whispers to my father

In satisfaction

When she thinks I am not listening.

So Orpah lives in our house again for now.

She always wakes up before dawn

To kindle the hearth

And to milk the goats, making sure I have fresh milk.

After preparing a hot porridge for our breakfast, she leaves quickly

To work in the fields,

Harvesting barley, planting wheat, weeding the cucumber patch.

"She works better than seven sons," Father says proudly.

When she returns at dusk, she cooks the evening meal for all of us,

Then washes the dishes, churns the butter, weaves and sews.

 

But she is very quiet.

Before her husband died, she used to laugh a lot

And tell me the funniest jokes.

She used to place her head on her husband's shoulder

And while he stroked her hair, she would sing

The hymns he had taught her,

Hymns that flowed as slowly as the River Jordan in summer.

But now she hardly talks.

And she hasn't remarried yet.

My parents worry; when they think I am not listening, Father tells Mother,

"Who wants to marry a Jew's widow?"

 

Orpah's room is next to mine.

She doesn't sleep well; sometimes I hear her get up in the middle of the night

And pray in a language I don't quite understand.

 

Whenever we eat bacon or pork or ham,

She gives me her portion when my parents aren't looking.

 

On late Friday afternoons before the sun sets,

When she thinks no one is looking,

She lights candles.

She lights candles and gazes at them in silence.

And cries.

 

Like I said, my sister Orpah almost left us a year ago.

But she came back to Moab.

 

 

 

 

Yakov Azriel was born in New York and came to live in Israel when he was 21.  He has published three books of poetry, Threads From A Coat Of Many Colors: Poems On Genesis (2005), In The Shadow Of A Burning Bush: Poems On Exodus (2008) and Beads for the Messiah's Bride: Poems on Leviticus (2009).  In addition, over 120 of his poems have been published in journals in the USA, the UK and Israel, and his poems have won thirteen awards in international poetry competitions, as well as a fellowship from the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture.

 

 

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Hulda

 

I am parched

After a long day

Of healing people’s grief

Swabbing salve

On broken spirits

Hearing their fears

Their pain is mine

Their tears salt my soul

 

Women behind thin veils

Arrogant men

Who doubt my word

I warn them

That they will die

It is not my will

(I sigh)

But they must heed

The dry warnings

Of my parched throat

 

Just before sunset

Between afternoon and evening offerings

My tent is still full

Though my heart has emptied

 

Husband!

Shalum

Has left his place

Under the arched gates of the city -

He brings me his offering

After he has finished

Refreshing the real thirsts

Of pilgrims and nomads

 

He runs to my tent

As the red sun sets

Behind his roped robe

With his last flask of water

To fill my heart.

 

 

Mindy Aber Barad's  poetry, stories, book reviews and essays have been published in Wild Plum, Current Accounts, The Jerusalem Post, The Jewish Press and other publications both on/off line.

 

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Chana's Prayer

My tears are bitter
My lips move but I'm silent
I pour out my soul.

That day in Shiloh
The Lord heard my hearfelt prayer
He anointed me,

My prayer had purpose
Samuel means "I begged the Lord"
My anguish is gone.

His praise I will sing
My womb is no longer closed
My son will be His.

I'm blessed with His grace
I offer Him my Firstborn
Through my suffering

In my soundless prayers
He saw my sincerity
Zebaoth is good.

 

Tanja Cilia is married, with three children, and lives in the beautiful Island Republic of Malta, in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.  She is an Allied Newspapers (Malta) columnist, blogger and features writer. She also freelances in Maltese and English, for local and foreign print and online markets, formulates puzzles and writes poetry. Her motto, philosophy, and epitaph of choice are “do as you would be done by”. 

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Julie R. Enszer is a poet and writer living in University Park, MD. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in OCHO, Jewish Women's Literary Annual, Feminist Studies, the Women's Review of Books, and many other journals. You can read more of her work at www.JulieREnszer.com.

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Accoucheuse to Israel

     "... the Hebrew midwives, one of whom, was named Shiphrah and the other Puah ..."
                                                                                 -Exodus (Shemot) 1:15

 

... attendant to revolt,
we went to seek blood, though found it not;
feigned obeisance and backed out smiling;
taunted the royal edict with anixious hearts,
raised the standard of fear to sacred heights;
our clients skipped their clinic appointments,
and we celebrated their vigor and health;
muscled women of the brickfields
even laughed while giving birth,
as if the pain it was our charge to inflict
had been averted in all good humor;
and to this day, here in our blooming families,
we look in awe at a nation born without us,
our motives mixed yet blessed,
our eyes fixed on the River,
still waiting for the blood ...

 

Wayne Ewing is award-winning author and poet. Ewing continues to write from his home in Templeton, California, where he resides and serves as co-caretaker at Cat Habitat, a no-kill feline sanctuary.

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Mrs. Noah

 

The problem with my wife was that

she had no imagination, no curiosity,

no initiative; she meekly sat

 

at my side, lacking all creativity.

She nodded and smiled at all I said;

obedient, yes, but no ability

 

to adjust to the ark in which we sailed; instead

she groaned and sighed

as she changed the straw, fed

 

the cats, the crows, caterpillars and crocodiles, and tied

the ropes with such exaggerated solemnity.

Her day’s work done, she’d disappear and hide

 

in bed. She fled all festivity –

like the birthdays of our daughters-in-law –

I nudged, “Have you no sense of family or community?”

 

I’d have given more

than fifty sacks of gold for a wife

with some pizzazz, with whom I could explore

 

the world, who would ignite my flame, our life

together one of excitement and spontaneity

– still, it was a marriage without strife.

 

But I wanted a woman of inner strength, with personality

with whom I could share wisdom, wit and wine.

Enough complaints! Who says I need a wife who’d sing duets with me?

 

At the Reed Sea

Where do we go now?

Egyptians at our heels:

their horses and chariots pounding,

the earth trembling…

 

I still mourn my mother,

my father and two sisters

who perished in the plague of harsh darkness –

Why have I come this far –

to be killed by my oppressors,

or drown in the sea?

 

I shiver through the night.

What is that thunderous rumble –

more frightening than Egypt’s whips?

Before my eyes, walls of water rise

to my left and right.

 

Shoved forward in the marching crowd –

no time to stand and gaze

at corals and rainbow fish –

no space to stretch out

and touch the water-panes –

the only sounds our steps

on the dry sea bed –

I walk across.

 

What is that crash?

Holding my breath, I swing around –

the heavy waters have returned –

is that the front of a chariot

bobbing on the sea?

 

I shall sing to the L-rd

for He has triumphed…

Miriam sings, drum in hand,

and I, beating timbrel, with all the women,

like swallows above clouds,

transcend mourning

and answer her in song.

 

 

At the Foot of Mount Sinai

 

I hold my daughter’s hand

And feel

The shofar’s vibrations

Through our palms.

 

We stand, tremble,

On the verge of tears,

But remain rooted,

Pinned like our tents to the ground.

 

I want to bury my daughter’s head

In my robes, save her

From the deafening sounds

- but dare not move.

 

A crack of lightening

Streaks the black sky

Bright orange.

Thunder.

 

My daughter grips my hand

- Or have I gripped hers?

Which is louder,

The shofar or clap of thunder?

 

One moment the shofar’s voice reigns,

Next moment, the thunder roars,

Greater than the crash of returning waters

Of the Reed Sea.

 

The orange melts to white –

White fire blazes through the sky –

Letters of black fire cascade

Chisel the white – fire engraving fire.               

 

Smoke curls from the cloud-bathed mount                                    

As the thunder turns to words:

I am the L-rd your G-d

Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt…

 

 

Sarai in Egypt

 

It had been a hard winter in Canaan –

No rain, the earth still parched –

No wheat grew.

 

Abram said we should go down

To Egypt to buy wheat.

Near Egypt’s border Abram said,

“Sarai, my love, I fear

That Pharaoh may kill me

And take you alive,

So say that you are my sister.”

 

More than fifty years of marriage

Were as a bowl of desert sand

Trickling through my fingers.

For more than fifty years we shared one life,

Shared one loaf of bread,

And he said I’m not his wife.

 

But how could I

Let him be killed

Because of me?

 

Now I lie

As a plank of wood

On Pharaoh’s gilded bed.

I pray to leave this golden death

And return to my tent of life.

Night after night

I watch the moon grow round

And release its fullness.

 

Is Abram still alive?

Has he forgotten where I am?

Has he been banished from this land?

Is he planning my escape?

 

Will Abram take me back?

 

Penina

 

I lie with my wailing son, my pillow damp with tears,

and feel the kicks of yet another child within,

but no man shares my bed:

Elkanah sleeps in her tent.

 

His eyes are set on her like olive leaves on a branch;

he buys her gold necklaces, bracelets and rings.

Blessed with children but barren of love, I watch,

while she, barren, has all his heart.

 

On the journey to Shilo, he rode with her,

while I rode, child strapped to my back, alone.

He brought her pomegranate juice and date honey on bread

while I sat nursing, and nettle filled my cup.

 

What do I need to win a man’s love?

Is bearing his children not enough?

Must I remain like Leah, hated,

while Jacob slept in Rachel’s tent?

Ruth Fogelman, a long-time resident of Jerusalem’s Old City, is the winner of the Reuben Rose Poetry Competition, 2006 and commended winner of the John Reid Traditional Poetry Competition, 2007. Ruth is author of Within the Walls of Jerusalem - A Personal Perspective. Her poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and other publications in Israel, the USA and India. Her first book of poetry, Cradled in G-d’s Arms will soon be released. Ruth is a facilitator of the Pri Hadash Women’s Writing Workshop in Jerusalem and holds a Masters Degree from the Creative Writing Program of Bar Ilan University. 

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In Shushan, Persia

  

The royal palace crackles with excitement: a new queen is to be chosen. Arabian spices and perfumes cling to the walls, laughter and low whispers drift from the harem. On his throne the king watches virgins present themselves for his choice. Eunuchs stand at attention while women of stunning appearance bow before the  throne, moving their bodies to accentuate their alluring contours. Eager faces flushed, they seek the king’s interest. Among them, one woman faces the king calmly, her head held high. Having prayed and fasted, her mind is focused on her mission. The king gazes at her dark hair caught in a pearl-net, her eyes studying him. He feels her vitality, senses purpose in eyes the color of midnight. She radiates peace, her presence refreshing like a mountain spring. Bored with fawning women, he realizes his need for a companion. He detains Esther as she turns to leave. Stay a little longer, my dear, I am a lonely man, he implores. She smiles. When she moves closer, his face lights up. The reign of Esther, Queen of Persia, begins.  

 

Ninette Freed was born in Poland, raised in Switzerland and came to the U.S. in her late teens. Her early teens were spent in Israel in the post Independence years when life was hard. Her parents, with the help of relations, relocated to the U.S. In midlife she entered UCLA to earn a degree in Literature. Her family now lives in the CA Desert which reminds her of Moses and his group struggling through the desert and inspires my biblical poems.

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Naamah’s Diary
 

 

 

Jephathah's Daughter
     "And Jephathah vowed ..."
                 -Judges XI-XXIX

 

With timbrel and dance
She came out to greet her father.
And behold!
His face grew pale as death -
Oh, my daughter, my dove!

She tore her braids,
And reviled God,
Bewailing her virginity.
Veiled figures joined the maiden,
Ghostly shadows, bent like reeds.

The hills in the distance echoed her cry.
The sun hid
Behind the clouds.
And the wind sighed-
Oh, flower of youth,
Irony of life.

 

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Who Were These Daughters Who Bore Their Father's Children 
 
Two nameless women plot to save their seed,
less with passion than by cunning —
who can guess what truth is spun into these yarns
cast off like linen from the limbs of daughters
doomed to share the close air of a cave with Lot —
their father — a survivor who recalled
the reeking wind and fire,  red and black,
that burned each tooth and hand and tool and stone
trapped in the crumbling towers at his back.

Blameless virgins — humbled brides —
fury carved behind their eyes — anguish pulsing
like their burnished hair in knotted swells,
prowl upon a cruel father’s shame to quell
the sour gnawing in their bowel.

Bread lies crumbled on the table
with remaining bits of roasted meat,
the cup of wine —
“the best of the old grapes, Papa,
grown sweet before the holocaust consumed the vine…”
his tongue flooded with the taste
of fruit still pressed upon the plain of Sodom —
now he shifts his bones — reclines in shadow lamplit
by a flame caught in the ruby facets of a beaker
brought to this cave in haste, that he might
never fail to bless the Holy Name — 
wine seeps from his mouth drowning words —
obliterating memories of angels at his hearth,
for whose protection he’d implore a rabid mob to
rape his daughters — trembling behind the door.

When every drop’s consumed and only dreams remain
stone turns to flesh — a pillar —
mute — bejeweled with tears — cries out in pain
and now a patriarch — grown stiff with stupor and
absolved by drunkenness of fault —
inscribes for all eternity
his craving for the taste of salt.
 
 
 
Erika Michael is an art historian, painter and poet living in Woodway, Washington. Her work has appeared in Poetica Magazine — receiving honorable mention in their 2007 poetry contest — in Drash: Northwest Mosaic and in Cascade: Journal of the Washington Poets Association. She reads her poems at various Northwest venues.
 
 

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In the Desert

Adonai?
Are you there?
It’s that dream again.
You know the one, Shaddai.
I’m almost blinded by the heat,
the desert sun at noon.
Then I see her eyes,
accusing,
the color of rage.
Hagar, my wife.
I flee from her,
on eagle’s wings.
I sweep low nearly brushing
my breast on the wadi floor
to where he is,
my son,
my oldest son,
the one I love,
Ishmael.
He unfurls from a huddled ball of despair
to embrace me.
The boy’s eyes are honey, his arms are milk.
Why, daddy, why? his fingers ask as he touches my face,
My mouth. I cannot breathe.
The desert wind suffocates us both.

Shechinah, must I say
good-bye and good-bye forever?
Without release from the prison of my dreams?

Elohim, did I get it wrong?
Didn’t you tell me to desert
the one I loved the most?
For blessings numbered more than all the stars
winking in the chilly Negev night?

Will you now forgive what I cannot forget?
Deliver me from my past mistakes, Adonai,
even those sins made in awe of you.
Save me, Rachamim, from my recurring delusions.

Where have you gone, God?

I stand outside the tent and search the sky,
awash with bitter stars. Deserted. Alone.

Abraham, Abraham. Hineni.

 

Heidi Schneider is a freelance writer, lawyer, Jewish educator, and synagogue president in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She is a Master Track student in creative non-fiction at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis.

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Esther

Plucked from our courtyards
while we were still playing
with petals strewn in our black hair,
before we ever inhaled love,

Stolen from our warm beds
because the king misses Vashti,
we must sing a thousand songs
so the king can sleep.

Mornings, we bathe in myrrh,
our smoothed skin
erases the scent
of roses from home.

Evenings, another girl is taken,
we do not see her again,
we wake to find ourselves
diminished.

 

 

 

 

Art by Shoshanna Brombacher
Esther Hamalka

Dina Yehuda was born in New York City to Holocaust survivors. She has an M.A. in English Literature from Columbia University. After having traveled and taught in various Jewish outreach programs, Dina made Aliya , married Yair Yehuda and helped found Mizpe Netofa, a vibrant community in the Lower Galilee. She lives there with her husband and children, Dina teaches English in the Kinneret Community College. She has been writing poetry and short stories for many years.

 

 

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