Jacob’s hunger for this first son
urges him to my side at every pause
in the day, the way Esau’s hunger
after days and nights on the mountain
must have urged him on to Jacob’s fire,
the simmering pot casting a wide
fragrant net, luring the brother
with the empty belly.
But my belly
is not empty. Jacob kneels and lays
his palms on either side of the heavy
undercurve of the baby’s bowl as if
to drink, as if it were a whole world
that he holds. He whispers, he presses
his ear against my side as if to hear. I know
it is not meant for me—the promise, the light
on the face, the love in the hands.
Still, for hours my skin glows
where I have been touched by the love
and the light, and in this story I do not
know which one I am—the thief by the fire
or the starved one clutching the birthright.