Yocheved Speaks

Miriam, my daughter

who first opened my womb

turning me into a mother,

I named you for the sea 

I’d never seen,

my dream revealing

who you would be

a daughter of the waters,

she who draws out the bitter,

she who parts the sea.

Bruchat Hi,  Blessed is she

sang Shifra and Puah

as I pushed and parted 

the curtain between us

and first gazed into

the wells of your eyes.

 

On the banks of the river I taught you - 

     take comfort from the egret and heron 

lifting above our constrictions,

     where to find soothing herbs of chamomile, 

aloe, to listen to our Mother Nile who daily reminds us

     between the confines of two shores 

is the ever changing flow that cannot be enslaved.

We bathed with Hebrew and Egyptian women,

even sometimes Pharaohs’ daughters,

taking off the clothing of slavery, 

washing away edicts and divisions,

our long hair and limbs 

weaving into one another

like luminous baskets. 

 

You with a child’s gift for seeing 

reminded us that God can be an ark 

of love formed from mud and reed.  

You brought the tools of the midwives -

the practice of listening, of waiting, 

of finding a way through even when 

any passage seemed impossible,

you who saved your brother

and your people from drowning.

 

We anointed and blessed you 

at your first bleeding 

while still slaves in Egypt

spreading oil of frankincense and myrrh 

over your brown skin, wove 

henna through your hair, 

naming you as midwife,

keeper of the well, prophet 

of the poem and dance. 

 

I was there by your side my daughter 

as we crossed remembering 

Pharaoh’s daughter and our sisters of the river.

When the sea drowned the men of Egypt

you sang a song of grief for their fallen 

sons and husbands, you of the heart 

larger than any one people 

or sea.