Samson

What was it about that Philistine
woman that blinded me?
Was it the way she sashayed
unashamedly as if her sweetness
was the one thing on earth
that could bring some peace
to the war in my head, in my heart?

Or was it the perfume
of comfort, the suppleness
of her legs when she sprawled
across the sheets, lying in my bed
and made me abandon my God
for the scent of her hair
as I nuzzled her flesh?

For my God is a hard God,
quick to anger and terrible
in His wrath, and for whom
I have become an instrument
of His terror. But now that I
have tasted her betrayal,
I will bring down this house
pillar by pillar, on the soft
skulls of these heathens!

 

 

Delilah

For all your size and bluster,
you were always a weak man.
All I had to do was ease
by your door, so you could snatch
a little whiff of my sweetness
and you'd be like the sun
chasing my shadow.

For no matter how many
times I tried to warn you,
tied you with bowstrings,
and weaved your hair
into the tapestry of my life,
you always thought your muscles
would save you, that a small
woman could never hurt you.

But am I any less of a prophet
or warrior because of my sex?
Do you think you could wage
war against my sisters
and brothers without us
devising a weapon more subtle
than the jaw of an ass?

I set the trap with a lure
that you could never resist.
Unlike you I made love
for the love of my God
to whom I've never broken
my word, and made the sacrifice
to lie down with you.

For despite the words you cry
that you'd do anything for Him,
you're still chained by a lust
that's stronger than your faith,
Unlike you, I am free.

 

 

Naaman's Wife

How many years had she held the slave girl
captive, ordering her to wrap and unwrap
the stinking bandages from his arms
and face, ordering her not to speak

unless she spoke? And when her lips
trembled that torrent of tears and bile,
of wanting to die every time he came home
from battle, and they lay in secret,

and she did what every good wife did,
yet awakened each morning to search
every part of her body, fingering this mole
that blemish, or her relief at the start

of her flow that they hadn't conceived
a bundle of scars? So, when the slave girl
finally whispered the name of a prophet
in the land of her fathers, she urged him

out of her bosom into the desert,
to the source which became light became
sound became, in the waters of the Jordan,
the healed flesh of her husband.

 

 

Easy Skanking

all saturday evenings
should be like this, caressing
your thigh while reading neruda
with his odes to matilde's arms,
breasts, hair--everything about her
that made him
a part of this bountiful earth--
lilies, onions, avocados--that fed
his poetry the way
rain washes the dumb cane with desire
or banyans break through asphalt--
this is the nirvana that the buddha
with his bald monks and tiresome sutras
never knew or else he'd never have left
his palace and longing bride--
the supple feel of your leg in my hands
for which i'd spin the wheel of karma
a thousand lifetimes, more

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