Not much of him was mine to love,
but whatever was left, I took it gladly.
The part of him that even his fierce god
could not consume, his sister’s tongue
scald, his own rage blister. In my arms
he was allowed to be an ordinary man,
uncertain, clumsy. Born an outsider,
walls on either hand, grateful to belong.
And so was I, startling myself with
soft singing in the tent, like a long
forgotten balm of rain. He smiled
in his red beard, a rusty quirk of mouth,
naming me desert lark, Sinai rosefinch,
laughing dove. I sang only for him,
sharing the morning’s manna or a lull
in the simoom. Little more than that.
We flew together when we could,
no stammered demands, no carving
in stone words good enough to bear
the weight of centuries. Listen, I said,
we are one. I give you all my heart,
my soul, my strength. It was enough.
Note: Zipporah was the wife of Moses