Song for Miriam

Sing, bitter sea and
Bird throated girl, (Oh)

Lissome, arid-boned wanderer.

You sucked song from your mother’s breast

(She did not yet know

why her hands shook like abandonment).

Set the childbearing reeds to whistling and

Watch with quiet eyes.

You were born wet thirst and so

You alone knew how to sing

When at last Israel was plucked from the sea,

Salty skinned and stumbling—

That was no

Soothing saline.

What of you, quiet prophet,

Shadow of Aaron, who was

Too old to be tendered?

In a haze of joy-glazed sight

You are named a prophet

Only to fall silent again.

Surely you must have dreamt, then,

Or held a whispered congress with God?

(Remember dust:

Prophecies wander with their prophets

And you were born with your mouth open).