by Sandy Supowit
What if Pharaoh meant to kill the Hebrew
girls, knowing their wombs could bring
forth enemies? What if it was Miriam
who rode the reeds and heard the voice
of the Shechinah from the heart
of the burning tree? It couldn't
have surprised her that the bush
was not consumed; she understood
the symbolism: All green things
sprung from the ever-pregnant earth
burn with life. She absorbed the flame
of prophecy, felt the febrile heat
of passion. She also knew
as every woman does, the potency
of blood and its frightening power
over men. Suggesting blood
on the lintels as a sign — that
had to be a woman's brainchild.
Miriam sanctified the awful night
her people didn't die by weeping
with Egypt's mothers who had to lose
so much for the sake of someone
else's freedom. It was Miriam's
compassion, still sharp with pain,
that split the waters. Her seaside
music was not a shir but a shira,
a female song, as natural as the song
the wind sings, as honest as the music of sky.
If Moses was the patriarch
doling out so much of the Law
in negatives — Lo teenaf, Lo teegnohv —
punctuating so many laws
with threats — Kol ha-ohseh milacha
b'yohm ha-Shabat, moht yumaht —
if Aaron, handsome in his priestly robes,
led the slaughter and the sacrifice,
maybe Miriam embraced the Shechinah
like a mother, worshipped G-d with love
and joy. In the rush to leave the Nile,
when so much was abandoned,
when even bread was in a hurry,
Miriam still took the time to tell the women
Bring your timbrels and your tambourines.
What if Pharaoh meant to kill the Hebrew
girls, knowing their wombs could bring
forth enemies? What if it was Miriam
who rode the reeds and heard the voice
of the Shechinah from the heart
of the burning tree? It couldn't
have surprised her that the bush
was not consumed; she understood
the symbolism: All green things
sprung from the ever-pregnant earth
burn with life. She absorbed the flame
of prophecy, felt the febrile heat
of passion. She also knew
as every woman does, the potency
of blood and its frightening power
over men. Suggesting blood
on the lintels as a sign — that
had to be a woman's brainchild.
Miriam sanctified the awful night
her people didn't die by weeping
with Egypt's mothers who had to lose
so much for the sake of someone
else's freedom. It was Miriam's
compassion, still sharp with pain,
that split the waters. Her seaside
music was not a shir but a shira,
a female song, as natural as the song
the wind sings, as honest as the music of sky.
If Moses was the patriarch
doling out so much of the Law
in negatives — Lo teenaf, Lo teegnohv —
punctuating so many laws
with threats — Kol ha-ohseh milacha
b'yohm ha-Shabat, moht yumaht —
if Aaron, handsome in his priestly robes,
led the slaughter and the sacrifice,
maybe Miriam embraced the Shechinah
like a mother, worshipped G-d with love
and joy. In the rush to leave the Nile,
when so much was abandoned,
when even bread was in a hurry,
Miriam still took the time to tell the women
Bring your timbrels and your tambourines.
