Poem: Girding Her Loins
Girding Her Loins
Fortitude,
you know—the real stuff,
like the he-man stories,
the heroes girding their loins
and going in guns blazing,
like Butch and Sundance,
Maverick in Top Gun,
and Henry at Agincourt.
Like Samson at the temple,
or better yet, Moses,
whose awful miracles struck an empire helpless.
* * *
What else can a mother say to her first born, but
“Sleep—don’t mind the frogs,
they’ve come from the river to sing your rest.
Let go—the darkness is meant for dreaming,
and as for the other tests,
you’ve passed them all, my darling boy.”
* * *
What is fortitude if not this?
The willingness to trust our children
to the maw of blind, uncertain faith;
the belief in something ridiculous,
like shrubbery ablaze.
The moon glimpsed through a tumult
of clouds and night—that is the light
in darkness; our hope set on a river
to be found by the enemy,
a daughter of the pharaoh,
who will pick a babe out of the water
and nourish him.
Remember Jesus in the desert?
He found the secret of his longing
in the realization of his incompleteness.
While his brothers sat in their caves,
hearts mildewing in the dampness,
he learned that fire saves
as well as burns.
Or better yet, Eve,
without whom we would be
as beautiful and empty as butterflies.
She who girded her loins
and took up the burden offered her,
trusting her children to the fruit,
opening the secret heart,
and in so doing,
created everything.