Begotten

I am the daughter of Laban, and of my mother whose name is lost,

and of this name, Leah, by which my father increased his fold

but I have another name, from the story before the story they made.

I am the daughter of Cain for my spirit wanders, but my garment

unravels a thin thread of grief leading me always back to their fires.

I am the daughter of the sins of my father but my blood is a rope

I cannot cut and I shudder at its spillage from the coil

of my heart, from the knot of my womb.

I am the daughter of my mother’s loom, the memory of color in the folds

of her clothes; daughter of all my mothers’ looms, though my own hands

know better. I stream from all the mothers before me and I pray

my small fork lead the river astray.

I am the daughter of flood, of river rock in the field, dry boat

on the mountaintop; daughter of the raven, returned.

I am daughter of salt hardened into the shape of a wife, for such

is the cost of looking; daughter of thresholds but always

I wake at the moment of crossing.

I am begotten of the daughters of Lot, for no stranger appears at my well,

yet my children must be brought.

I am the daughter of fields terraced like ziggurats up the side

of the mountain, offerings to the feet of their god, but I stand

with my arms wrapped around my heart.

I am daughter of the law, yet I am hated; daughter of many eyes,

yet my own are hooded. I am the daughter of grief but I have

sewn shut my mouth.

I am the daughter of She Who Hears Me, but though I open

and open I will not be fed. Daughter of the Father,

but though I close and clench I will not be spared.

I am the daughter of knives and Rachel and Rachel’s beauty,

and I cannot cut my way through the thick

caul of my sister’s story, both of us

Begotten of Hagar and Sarai, who heed not the crying out

of blood from the ground again and again, who tremble not

at the wrestlings of angels or of brothers, who scoff

at the wars of men.