are my brothers dragged dead
outside the camp,
and why
are the rest of us dripping
with blood?
This headband is tight,
and the drips from the lobe
of my right ear are
distracting, like the rain
off the roof of my tent when
I'm wrestling uneasily
with sleep.
Uncle Moses, where
is the Compassionate? The Slow-
to-Anger One who hid you
within fire-formed rocks,
brought you into His presence and
let you live?
Fiery incense and disobedience?
Where is Maintaining Love?
We are less
than thousands, we a weeping
and bloody family before Him.
Uncle Moses, what of me? I am
short in my robes, clumsy, bound
to tangle in these folds, knock into
the altar. My chin barely has enough hair
to be singed. Forgive
the wicked questions, Uncle Moses,
but the fear...
