My Heart Is a Hammer

My heart is a hammer. My heart beats a drum.

My soul sings a woman’s song, heard on the wind.

Beyond the oak grove where my tent is pitched,

Far from those of my blood, where I wait, listen.

Here I am sheltered from war, yet a wanderer.

Even my husband is gone away. To watch the battle?

To graze the flock? We hang as threads in the storm

Of this blood-soaked conflict, this crazed lust for land.

So it was here, under the arching arms of oaks,

That I heard the woman’s song, her soft battle cry.

Scented with dates, the breeze carries her lyric:

Her enemy delivered by the hands of a woman.

Could the hands of a woman deal a great warrior

His final blow? Milk-white, wool-soft, gentle hands?

Loving hands? Alluring hands? Calming hands?

I looked at my own small hands, calloused with work.

As her song floated across the valley, I heard beats,

Clangs of war sandals, broken on the iron of chariots,

Covered in a flooded river’s mud, boiled in tears.

Her enemy, delivered to me, to my tent amid oaks.

My heart is a hammer. It beats the cadence of war.

These hands, accustomed to warm teats and wool,

Were my weapons now, and my voice, my smile,

My beckoning eyes, would be my spear and shield.

Come and rest your aching legs, your weary eyes,

Sleep in my care’s embrace, under my soft rug.

I will cool your skin with wet cloths, and fill your

Hollows with fresh milk still warm from the breast.

As he slept, snoring and groaning as men do,

Her song carried into my ears again, and again,

Deliver me my enemy, into the hands of a woman.

Drop the ewer, the cloth, the rug. Grasp a hammer.

Just as a baby sleeps, he curled and clenched,

His temple raised up to me as flesh on an altar.

With my simple tools, and my tantalizing coos,

I made a blow, and delivered him to his enemy.

Yes, he was not my enemy, nor was the woman.

These are perilous times to be alone, adrift.

So I made a choice that day, to join the woman.

Under her shading palms, she was strength.

Weakness is not the shield of a woman.

Even alone in her tent, she can be mighty.

I joined in the woman’s song of triumph and joy.

My heart is a hammer! And I strike it for her.

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Survivor's Song

My song is the one of survival. And, so?
Cast out of my tent, my work, my home,
For using my talents for tossed coins
To fill my gullet with a little grain,
My wineskin with thin, yeasty grape.

The royal decree sent me swiftly packing
Into the wild, bare mountains of Endor.
Wolves, snakes and vultures are now
My wary companions. Banished now,
Belly groaning, shivering in my cave bed.

Imagine my surprise when he came for me.
Disguised in rags, but his bronzed brow
Gave him away to my flickering eyes,
Trained so long in trickery and persuasion.
This was no shabby goatherd. A king!

He spoke with a commanding tone, and
I obeyed, because I had no other choice.
Conjure the spirit, the freshly dead prophet,
Fearsome man, just settled in his grave,
To advise this beggarly ruler, quivering.

Truthfully, my only power is deception.
Desperate ones believe what they want.
Learning to cast my voice had been easy,
Back in my traveling fortune-teller days,
With the jugglers, pickpockets and whores.

So I tossed it out to the ragged crags, to
Cold and whistling winds that echoed,
Deepened to sound as that esteemed wraith,
And the timid warrior believed it, ate it all
As a hungry baby laps up his morning milk.

Of course, I knew what fate he faced in battle.
That nursing baby could have told you his future.
Because he did not have the swagger of a king.
He had the drained look of a man who'd lost
Everything, and knew his days were at end.

So telling him he'd be wiped out on the field
Was no genius stroke, and I did not need
Any special powers of foresight or "magic."
I am no witch, just a woman, working her
Trade and craft to survive in a harsh world.

But I've heard the whispers and scornful clucks.
Medium, conjurer, rouser of resting spirits.
I just read faces, listen to tales, watch the eyes.
These provide all the clues to predict outcomes,
Even of kings who now lie cold in dusty beds.

Don't fear the roll of the throwing stones.
Ignore the whisper of the swaying oracle.
Listen to the sound of your own conscience.
Fates are not predicted, chiseled or sealed.
Yours, as a soft ball of clay, lies in your hands.

Fruits Without Rinds

At first, we were swathed in many layers.
Fabric folds and flirtatious fibs concealed.
We sipped liquors spiked with citrus,
And exotic flavorings that lay heavily
On our tongues, too sweet to be real.
Falsehood stokes passion, tricks minds.

Gradually, there was a falling away.
Layers we used for protection seemed
Less necessary, and finally, unwanted.
Ready to face each other, our sheaths
Peeled off, rolling down like birch bark.
Underneath: truth. Raw, clean, plain.

We began to accustom ourselves to reality,
To the awkward angles of familiar bodies,
Raucous snorts of spontaneous laughter,
Sameness of days and nights, of habits
Held far too long to conquer, and, once
Revealed, become accepted, unnoticed.

Still, why does the fruit need its rind?
It holds precious, sweet juices within,
Protects the seeds tucked deep inside,
Keeps the flesh moist and nourishing.
Once peeled away, it becomes fibrous,
Dry, drained of enticing sour, sweet.

Mindlessly, you stopped squeezing
The limes in my gins and tonics,
Your tongue curious for the new,
And I saw your rind grow back,
Peeling around you, encasing you,
And mine as well, for protection.

Alone Together

I knew every curve of the path we made through the woods behind our houses.
In under twenty seconds, I could propel myself to the top of our little hill.
Dashing through the winding vines, my jeans covered in sticky hitchhikers,
And breathing rapidly, laughing too, I would wait for you in the clearing.

Someone who came before us had left the semblance of a treehouse,
A ragged structure of old plywood making a platform in the canopy
Of oak branches and fresh-scented pines, a place where we could be
Alone together with our chatter of idealistic dreams and observations.

Alone together, is this state of being even possible? I ask myself now
That I often feel truly alone, marinating in worry, in cynical dismissals.
Youth's future vision is full of cloudless, ever-stretching horizons,
Eyes noting the tiniest, emerging green buds and crawling bugs.

In our shabby perch, our ears could still decipher the animals' song,
Our tongues able to discern the perfect ripeness of a sour muscadine,
And we picked them until our buckets were spilling over, and still
There were thousands more, in our protective canopy in the woods.

When we were very young, our happy voices joined in that chorus
Of blue jays and cardinals, croaking frogs, scuttling squirrel paws,
We sang at the top of our lungs a nonsensical, beautiful lyric,
The joy of being alone together amid beauty, on endless afternoons.