I am the angel who heard their euphony:
the Hebrew prophet’s words turning to
lamb
topaz on Ethiopian tongue, their voices
wedded together, gleaming
knife
beneath the desert sun. Imagine it:
you are Qinaqis, born beside
ewe
the Gihon River that once flowed from
Eden, marked for exile
mute
from family, from choice,
from even the faith
sheared
you one day will embrace,
despite your pilgrimage through
torment
the wilderness. Stranger, slave.
Language works against you,
mockery
though its accents ring noble
& its rhythms are inescapable.
speak
You know God
is involved in what you read,
name
even as metaphor eludes you—
you need to know who was
living
cut off without complaint.
You want him to be real & can’t help
count
seeing yourself in him, hoping
he understands you. So I sent Philip,
kin
who watered your seed like long-awaited
rain. And all afternoon it was dawn on
Earth.
Julie L. Moore, author of Full Worm Moon, directs the writing center at Taylor University in Indiana.
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