In the Kitchen

Bellini has it wrong,
I was not kneeling
on my satin cushion,
in a beam of light,
head slightly bent.

Painters always
skew the scene,
as though my life
were wrapped in silks,
in temple smells.

Actually, I had just
come back from the well,
placing the pitcher on the table
I bumped against the edge,
spilling water on the floor.

As I bent to wipe
it up, there was a light
against the kitchen wall,
as though someone had opened
the door to the sun.

Rag in hand,
hair across my face,
I turned to see
who was entering,
unannounced, unasked.

All I saw
was light
white against the timbers.
A voice I've never
heard greeted me,

said I was elected, would
bear a son who'd reign
forever. The spirit would
overshadow me.
I stood afraid.

Someone closed the door
and I dropped the rag.


The Angel comes

Ignorant, scarcely thirteen
when the speaking light catches
me barefoot in the kitchen,

soiled torn apron,
hair undone, garbage
crock almost full.

Splendor breaks
into the room without
a warning, says

I’m chosen, places a bundle
of hard wood upon
a reed, waits for my “yes.”


Shame

Pregnant before the bridal
bed, child carrying
child., knowing nods

as the village women see me
pass down the back
alley, whispers, sudden

silences at market as I reach
across the leeks for fresh
hard cucumbers from the country,

-- every choice signs away
tomorrow – teenage sideway
glances and giggles. Secret

awe at the unwed mother.
(How long had this been going
on?) No one sits beside me

on the bench in synagogue.
I see bags under Joseph’s
dark eyes. I’m alone.