Dinah’s Brothers, Tamar’s Husbands

 

Dreams and fine clothing, family chaos, all the long tale
of Joseph the son of Judah comes drenched in dread—
a cloak dipped in goat’s blood, a pharaoh rich with power,
even the meaning of seven fat cows and seven starving:

 

Last night I put myself into each one’s place, tasting
the bitter broth of envy, desertion, defeat, a hostage held,
forced emigration to a dry land of famines. Then
how could I wash their blood from my eyes? My heart?

 

Line by line I parsed the story again, seeking some comfort
that didn’t depend on the deadly and desperate, witnessing
all over again how dreams become nightmares, and family
fosters ferocity and injury. Working back, back, in Torah time

 

to two sisters who shared one spouse, and the painful love
born in each of them. Rachel, Leah, how many readers connect
Joseph’s dreams of destiny blossoming to your babies?
I’m making a rash guess: The blessings you gave them

 

suckling and snug against your swollen, wounded hearts:
those, more than the fine coat or that pharaoh’s gratitude,
saved them from murdering each other. Mother’s milk
sweet and supportive, lingering all their lives.

 

One more dangerous reading, and I tore my hair
in pain with the story’s daughters, Dinah and Tamar.
For all the good that Judah’s sons reaped, how bitter
in equal measure came these women’s destinies.

 

So how could I be surprised as a man on the evening news
proclaimed: Your body. My choice.