Anna
by Julie L. Moore | @julielmoore19
Most blessed of sons is Asher; let him be favored by his brothers, and let him bathe his feet in oil. The bolts of your gates will be iron and bronze, and your strength will equal your days. ~Deuteronomy 33: 24-25
I have marked this spot for a century,
give or take, here between the heathens
and Israeli men, in the Court of Women,
at the foot of these stairs where the Levites sing,
the closest I’m allowed to creep
toward the Holy Place. There, the lamp
shines upon the table bearing the bread
of His terrifying presence. There, the incense
rises from the altar where the angel struck
Zechariah dumb. O, I know about that. I know a lot.
When you spend every day and night here like I do,
you hear things. You sometimes think of your husband,
who, in your other life, farmed olives and massaged
your feet with oil for seven too-short years.
Long ago your dreams of children
blew like sand to distant lands. So you focus
on every line in the limestone, sense the ashlars
pulsing during prayer. You smell the dung of oxen,
fresh blood, the lamb burning as you fast,
and the sweat of everyone basking in the sun.
You hear the thrum of the marketplace
infiltrating the court like locusts—
coins clanking, cattle snorting, and always,
men in charge, announcing their competitive
prices. If I had my choice, I would not entreat
the one true G-d here. It is too hard.
But you see, I am a daughter from the tribe
of Asher, prophetess who has counted
the cost, who will be remembered.
My strength equals my days.
I know the one who has come
will toss the money-changers out,
and they will kill him for it. (The whole
economy, after all, runs on this place.)
Rome has her emperor who thinks himself
god, one of many, none of whom I worship.
Herod has built this temple and lords over
Jerusalem. Let all their power pour forth.
They will not stop this, for it is bound to happen.
See the family approach: The father totes
two pigeons in a crate. Mary carries the babe,
who will tear the veil in half and let us in.
