POETRY
To be the wife of Job
Face slack with shock
not even the cattle spared
not even the wheat of the fields …
I beg him to curse God,
return to dust—
which hisses like snakes
around my feet, circling,
deadly,
I beg Job to die, for sackcloth
to be his shroud,
so my suffering might be complete,
and when his skin grows red
with boils, my bitterness
strikes him, my lips spit words
like darts—
God cannot be treating him unjustly.
I become the accuser; my finger weakly
pointing, until all I can do
is put my face to the dusty ground
and weep.
Maundy Thursday
I weep at the table,
blood trickles down
from the cup
my clumsy hands
knocked over.
I look for a rag
to blot the red
that seeps
into the cracks on my floor.
I do not wish the dark stain
to flood the creases
of my fingers,
so I am careful as I clean,
but the cloth
stays white,
and the cup refills,
brimming with life.
I look to You,
Your hand holds
the gleaming glass,
offers me a drink.
I part my lips
And bow my head.
Golem
There came a stirring
in the cosmic dust.
Vast gusts of solemn air
moved earth and water
and it was there that clay
wrapped itself about bone,
and the Universe thought
for a moment.
A great celestial inspiration
moved through
the crude depiction,
spending itself on blood
and breath, roaring through
awakened synapses. Nerves sparked
furiously as eyes blinked
and nostrils opened
to fill lungs with first breath.
Julia McMullen is a poet from the Midwest, where she lives with her husband and young children. Her work has previously appeared in Foreshadow Magazine, The Way Back to Ourselves, and Solid Food Press.
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Image: Job mocked by his wife, Gaspare Traversi (1722–1770), National Musuem in Warsaw, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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