Tightening endings

 The rain beats against the palace walls - like kisses, they slide softly down the iron bars, and I wish I could press their soft petals to my lips. Whoever thought the day would come when I longed for water more than the touch of a woman? I think of the whore from the fig-grove; I imagine the wet beads sliding down her breasts, her thighs, the small drop of water nestling against the crevice of his lips when he puts his mouth on her nipples. But who can afford her, nowadays? She must sell blow-jobs for bread-crusts - at least I get those for free, courtesy of the king.

God tells me he will redeem His nation. He tells me brides will adorn themselves by the walls of the temple. But what good does that do them now, these men and women who would sell their children for half a shriveled fig, as Nebuchadnezzar's army holds nightly orgies outside the city walls?

"As night and day, so is my treaty with this nation". His voice rumbles like war-drums, and the passion in His kisses makes me tremble. My finger pricks at the wetness around the bars; I insert it into my lips, and my mouth is filled with the taste of iron. Lightning bounces off of moonlight, peeking in between the slats.

The rustle of metal. The key in the chain. "Your daily bread". A brown piece of mush is tossed in my direction. My wrists are wasted by these manacles. I try not to think of what I look like as I bring the bread to my mouth - would she laugh at me, that girl for whom I wanted to buy flowers? Would she recognize me?

"Redemption." I hear God whisper in my ear. His murmurings mingle with the kisses that slide down the iron bars, this rain that will quench the thirst of the soldiers, their mouths open, as the women undulate beneath them  like the river my fathers once crossed, on their way into the promised land, kissing their wives and speaking of redemption, their hands clutching weapons of iron, whose taste lingers in between my lips, like the kiss of a lover, or a whore, who now lies wet beneath a grove of fig-trees, that once shaded Adam from his shame. Eve could not feel embarrassed: She was too busy deciding which fig-leaf looked best against her skin. "There is a fine difference between the different shades of green", she explained to Adam, when he complained.

An angel transformed his words into prayer as they left his lips, lest Eve get upset, and forget to give Adam his daily blow-job. The first religious ritual was born from a need for sex, and a bit of prehistoric shopping. Next season, Eve decided that apple-blossoms were the latest trend; as she braided them into Adam's hair; his prayers grew longer, and soon she started to swallow.

The snake crawled by and hissed at the happy couple, the way the priests hissed at me when I came with the words of God in my mouth, heavy like a piece of iron, waiting to be unchained. 

I am still waiting.

Jeremiah 33 - playing with endings

The rain beats against the palace walls - like kisses, they slide softly down the iron bars, and I wish I could press their soft petals to my lips. Whoever thought the day would come when I longed for water more than the touch of a woman? I think of the whore from the fig-grove; I imagine the wet beads sliding down her breasts, her thighs, the small drop of water nestling against the crevice of his lips when he puts his mouth on her nipples. But who can afford her, nowadays? She must sell blow-jobs for bread-crusts - at least I get those for free, courtesy of the king.

God tells me he will redeem His nation. He tells me brides will adorn themselves by the walls of the temple. But what good does that do them now, these men and women who would sell their children for half a shriveled fig, as Nebuchadnezzar's army holds nightly orgies outside the city walls?

"As night and day, so is my treaty with this nation". His voice rumbles like war-drums, and the passion in His kisses makes me tremble. My finger pricks at the wetness around the bars; I insert it into my lips, and my mouth is filled with the taste of iron. Lightning bounces off of moonlight, peeking in between the slats.

The rustle of metal. The key in the chain. "Your daily bread". A brown piece of mush is tossed in my direction. My wrists are wasted by these manacles. I try not to think of what I look like as I bring the bread to my mouth - would she laugh at me, that girl for whom I wanted to buy flowers? Would she recognize me?

"Redemption." I hear God whisper in my ear. His murmurings mingle with the kisses that slide down the iron bars, this rain that will quench the thirst of the soldiers, their mouths open, as the women undulate beneath them  like the river my fathers once crossed, on their way into the promised land, kissing their wives and speaking of redemption, their hands clutching weapons of iron, whose taste lingers in between my lips, like the kiss of a lover, or a whore, who now lies wet beneath a grove of fig-trees, that once shaded Adam from his shame. Eve could not feel embarrassed: She was too busy deciding which fig-leaf looked best against her skin. "There is a fine difference between the different shades of green", she explained to Adam, when he complained.

An angel transformed his words into prayer, as they left his lips, lest Eve get pissed off, and forget to give Adam his daily blow-job. The first religious ritual was born from a need for sex, and a bit of prehistoric shopping. Next season, Eve decided that apple-blossoms were the latest trend, and used to braid them into Adam's hair; his prayers grew longer, and she started to swallow.

The snake crawled by on his belly and hissed at the happy couple, the way the priests hissed at me when I came with the words of God in my mouth, heavy like a piece of iron, waiting to be unchained. 

I am still waiting.

Jeremiah 33

The rain beats against the palace walls, like kisses, they slide softly down the iron bars, and I wish I could press their soft petals to my lips- whoever thought the day would come when I longed for water more than the touch of a woman. I think of the whore from the fig-grove; I imagine the wet beads sliding down her breasts, her thighs, the small drop of water nestling against the crevice of his lips when he puts his mouth on her nipples. But who can afford her, nowadays? She must sell blow-jobs for bread-crusts - at least I get those for free, courtesy of the king.

God tells me he will redeem His nation. He tells me brides will adorn themselves by the walls of the temple. But what good does that do them now, these men and women who would sell their children for half a shriveled fig, as Nebuchadnezzar's army holds nightly orgies outside the city walls.

"As night and day, so is my treaty with this nation". His voice rumbles like war-drums, and the passion in His kisses of thunder makes me tremble. My finger pricks at the wetness around the bars; I insert it into my lips, and my mouth is filled with the taste of iron. Lightning bounces off of moonlight, peeking in between the slats.

The rustle of metal. The key in the chain. "Your daily bread". A brown piece of mush is tossed in my direction. My wrists are wasted by these manacles. I try not to think of what I look like as I bring the bread to my mouth - would she laugh at me, the girl for whom I wanted to buy flowers? Would she recognize me?

"Redemption." I hear God whisper in my ear. His murmurings mingle with the kisses that slide down the iron bars, this rain that will quench the thirst of the soldiers, their mouths open, as the women undulate beneath them like a river, like the river my fathers once crossed, on their way into the promised land, kissing their wives and speaking of redemption, their hands clutching weapons of iron, whose taste lingers in between my lips, like the kiss of a lover, or a whore, who now lies wet beneath a grove of fig-trees, that once shaded Adam from his shame. Eve could not feel embarrassed: She was too busy deciding which fig-leaf looked best against her skin. "There is a fine difference between the different shades of green", she explained to Adam, when he complained - and from this complaint, was born prayer.

All this ritual, from just a little bit of prehistoric shopping - and they say that women don't run the universe.

Insomnia Edits Her Pieces (My eyes hurt. Why can't I fall asleep? Or read by the light of your eyes.)

The rain bleeds into me like a woman; I feel it soaking my thighs, and I pull at the tattered grey that once covered my body, before I had learned to lie in these chains. They let me out twice a day to attend to my needs, but in these times of drought, it's a miracle when one has enough water inside to let any out.

I was not expecting the rain. God had not told me, nor had He warned me of the mud. (What fine brown sheets.) When the messenger came, I looked like - well, certainly like nothing that could be described in polite company. But soon it was done, the transaction, the contract buried in potted shards by the river, and I thought of your eyes, and the brown thickets  between your legs that I combed with my fingers. (You never took care of your nails, and always did the dishes. I could never decide which habit annoyed me more.)

One day, they will rebuild. That's what I am told: Golden palaces will rise from these faded stones. How cliche. I told God I wanted a better metaphor, but He went on and on about "speaking in the language of humans".  I'm not really sure what the means. To kiss like a human, that makes more sense to me - and don't both activities involve our lips and tongues?

 I was never right for this job, but neither was Moses, and look how he wound up: buried in a mountain. Still, famous, I suppose. I never was such a fan of that ocean song, myself - I prefer rivers.

Rivulets of water sing me lullabies, and I feel the rust in the chains. I hear rivers when I close my eyes, and long, like a woman, for your lips upon my thighs.

Jeremiah 32

The rain bleeds into me like a woman; I feel it soaking my thighs, and I pull at the tattered grey that once covered my body, before I had learned to lie in these chains. They let me out twice a day to attend to my needs, but in these times of drought, it's a miracle when one has enough water inside to let any out.

I was not expecting the rain. God had not told me, nor had He warned me of the mud. (What fine brown sheets.) When the messenger came, I looked like - well, certainly like nothing that could be described in polite company. But soon it was done, the transaction, the contract buried in potted shards by the river, and I thought of your eyes, and the brown thickets  between your legs that I combed with my fingers. (You never took care of your nails, and always did the dishes. I could never decide which habit annoyed me more.)

One day, they will rebuild. That's what I am told: Golden palaces will rise from these faded stones. How cliche. I told God I wanted a better metaphor, but He went on and on about "speaking in the language of humans".  I'm not really sure what the means. To kiss like a human, that makes more sense to me - and don't both activities involve our lips and tongues and teeth? (But not too much teeth, I hope.)

I was never right for this job, but neither was Moses, and look how he wound up: buried in a mountain. Still, famous, I suppose. I never was such a fan of that ocean song, myself - I prefer rivers.

Rivulets of water sing me lullabies, and I feel the rust in the chains. I hear rivers when I close my eyes, and long, like a woman, for your lips upon my thighs.

31

I had a lot of trouble writing something for Jeremiah 31. I wound up reading it a few times, and then writing something later, as opposed to my general "read then write immediately" method. This is a short exercise - I tried to write a fourteen line poem based on the theme of the chapter, using some of the chapter's imagery (grain, vineyards, water, sword-shards). I will not say it's something I've written I'm most proud of, but I think sometimes in life it's important to keep going, even when the "going" is not "going" the way that you'd like - which in this case means publishing this exercise and God willing moving on to 32 sometime this week.

Jeremiah 31

 Sword-shards weaved between your tresses
 my fingers on your breasts, your hands on the plough:
 When will we drink from this vineyard?
 When will you show me how?
 You guide me on pathways through water,
dragging my feet through the waves:
 When will we reach the bedroom,
where we gather the grain that we've reaped,
 and why are your lips on my shoulder,
 there's work to be done on the ground.
 You chiseled a covenant on my breasts,
and whispered of waves on the sea.
I wait like a sheaf in this corner,
for you to rescue me.

Jeremiah 30

Her hands are rough; they flit across her skirt like butterflies, or Spanish dancers - her fingers become lace mantilals, shaking back and forth to the rythm of the leaves, which are twirled by the wind. She thought of life in images, spare frames filled with motion she could not grasp, and sounds she could not quite understand. "One day, I will make a movie out of it", she would think, at random moments, like when she was spicing the chicken soup. The kitchen tiles felt cold against the soles of her feet, and she wished she had remembered to wash her socks in the laundry. "But it all comes in fragments", she fretted, as she sliced the onions. She enjoyed the feel of their thin layers between her fingers, and once she had claimed that men were weaker than onions, because no man had made her cry. But now, she grew misty-eyed when she thought about that bravado - and then she turned to the author, and complained that she hated cliches, like "misty-eyed" and "bravado".

"And aren't you supposed to be studying Jeremiah?" she asked, "about how God punishes, then redeems, his people? And how dare you think of me when the image crops up of an abandoned whore - if I wanted, I could have a man between my thighs." She goes back to stirring the soup. She is adorable in her anger - the way she flashes her hair and stomps her feet. "Stop comparing me to a dancer!". Another stomp, a bit more paprika. The author is the one who has read (or, at least, skimmed) Luigi Pirandello's "Six Characters in Search of An Author", so she should take the initiative - but she is too tired, and the words of Jeremiah too beautiful. She wonders briefly whether he would have been good in bed, or whether she should take men between her thighs more often. She ponders feminism, and is grateful that her breasts are no longer being opressed by the patriarchy, her pink bra having been removed somewhere around verse six. She longs to chant the words to the ancient text, almost as much as she longs for sleep.