Desert Woman

Everlasting sand drifts 
Against the thick canvas 
Of my father’s tent. 
I drop my burden to the dunes 
And rest. A staid maiden

Adorned with veils 
And baubles, my youth is tolled 
By the passing bells of goat herds 
Shall I have no sons, 
Relish no daughters?

Remnant of a wicked generation, 
I am wounded in spirit, untried. 
In those desolate cities I would have been 
A prize—sturdy, stalwart, 
Enduring valleys and sandstorms.

I wait for a warrior’s venison breath 
To fall hot upon me, 
his voice whispering, “Sariah, Sariah,” 
As the arrows in his quiver 
Catch my thick black braids.