Pondering Genesis 30: In honor of a homeless man I saw in Brooklyn

"I am so angry", I said.

"What do you want me to do about it?" you asked.

"Nothing." I said.

You blew out the candle, and we lay together in the dark. I could feel the taste of your lips on my palms like a poultice for a wound that can not be healed.

Afterwards, we lay apart. I could hear you roll over; your back brushed my arm.

"If I don't have kids, I'll just die!" I said.

"Am I beneath God, who has denied you fruit of the womb?" you asked. I could feel the rush of air from your rising, sense the shadow of your naked body standing over me, poised like a lion.

"I am sorry", you said, and I could taste your tears on my lips when you held me until morning.

I remembered the day we first met, when you kissed me by the well, and I serenaded you with words and flowers. Our marriage is like the promising harvest blighted by locusts in fall, and I stand here, still waiting for the harvest. I would still crown your head with lilies, and dress your shoulders with my kisses, but you have already plucked your wheat from another field.