And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel.
Leah was tender-eyed, but Rachel was beautiful and well-favoured.
Rachel is beautiful,
my mother’s oldest sister says
to Mother, but there is something
about Leah.
I catch my breath
to hear what it is, but Mother
doesn’t answer and aunt Tikva
says no more.
They are at their weaving—
every year the big visit
of the seven sisters. They come
to sit in their circle and tell secrets,
weave new headscarves
for all the daughters. They know
everything I don’t.
There is no fire at the center
of their circle, but it is warm there
as a lap full of babies. They don’t
eat sweets while they weave,
but when I hide around their edges
I think they laugh like honey cakes
are filling their mouths—aunt Tikva,
sometimes she laughs so hard
she tips sideways
into my mother’s shoulder
and not even Mother can sit
up straight against that. Their hands
are beautiful in the threads, quick
as birds with many wings and when
I’m alone, I try to make my hands
fly like theirs. I am twelve, it is almost
my time. My breasts will grow
and my blood will come
and Mother will have to
let me in. Now, when she sees me,
she says, Leah, go find your sister.
I beg, I beg her to let me stay.
I fly my fingers like little birds
to show I can be useful, I can
be trusted with the thread,
I could make my own.
Even when aunt Tikva says,
Oh, Adah, let her stay, Mother
looks at me hard and says, You go
find your sister, Leah. Rachel
will be lonely. So I have to go.
But Rachel makes fun of aunt Tikva
and the other sisters, and me.
Let her be lonely, is what I say.
They have finished Rachel’s scarf.
She likes squares and triangles
made into patterns like stars.
I like waves, and bird wings, and circles
more than squares. I like the moon
better than the stars. Now, then,
aunt Tikva says as she runs
her hand over Rachel’s scarf
still lying across Mother’s lap,
what shall we do for Leah?