She buys me for my birth canal
but beats me for the birth.
I despise her.
And beneath her fist,
I become the broken earth.
When I spring towards the water,
son in womb, all that’s left to wander,
I swallow the sand to Shur,
until the LORD comes to assure me
that my descendants will be more numerous
than that which I shovel down my throat.
So, I spit out gravel, jaw slack, watching
divinity rage over my misery
my God is a consuming fire
to consume that which consumes me
to call forth a son from my womb
lift me to ride on a wild donkey in the wilderness;
straddling hostility and honor,
he is born.
Call him Ishmael.
I am the lost woman, and You are the God who sees me.
Photo by Chirag Nayak on Unsplash