JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER
Your father tenders your life. You yearn simply for tenderness.
Nameless daughter. Known only as belonging to Him. He
who grips your loamy little-rooted life in his palm, wrenches it
then releases. In myth and scripture, a daughter’s slaughter:
never slaughter. Just strategy to achieve the desired objects of war.
You, a holy daughter made holier. The wood laid. The fire,
a knife. Your sacrum set on the altar. I imagine the moment
you understand no angel’s voice breaks the heavens. No
celestial arm holds your father’s blade back. Your life and death
trivial as a bowl of red berries, spilling on a wooden table—
scattering at his feet.
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