— A Wife and a Husband Who Live in Harmony

Two old people on a porch swing,
moving slowly,
her hand on his,
neither of them speaking,
the chains creaking,
the yard going gold.

If the rib could speak,
I think it would say:

I was taken from his side.

Not from his head,
the old preachers said,
to rule over him.

Not from his feet,
to be walked on.

From his side,
near his heart,
to walk beside him.

God built a woman from me
while he slept,
and when he woke,
he sang:
at last,
bone of my bone,
flesh of my flesh.

I don’t belong to him.

We belong
to each other.

I take pleasure in three things,
and they are beautiful in the sight of the Lord and of mortals:
agreement among brothers and sisters,
friendship among neighbors,
and a wife and a husband who live in harmony.

A wife and a husband who live in harmony.

I stop here.

Fifty years.

Not always harmony.

My rough words.

Her patience.

And still,
the swing,
moving.

If you gathered nothing in youth,
how can you find anything in old age?

How attractive is wisdom in the aged.

Rich experience is the crown of the aged,
and their boast is the fear of the Lord.

The crown of the aged.

Not gold.

Gathered.

Then the chapter turns.

Any wickedness,
but not the wickedness of a woman.
No anger worse than a woman’s wrath.
I would rather live with a lion and a dragon.
A garrulous wife.
Do not be ensnared by a woman’s beauty.

From a woman sin had its beginning,
and because of her we all die.

If she does not go as you direct,
separate her from yourself.

I can’t read this quickly.

I won’t read past it.

I want to say clearly:
this is not permission
to blame, shame, harm, or silence any woman.

Not Eve.
Not any wife.

Sin did not begin with a woman.

Paul himself said,
in Adam all die.

Garrulous.
Venom.
Dragon.

These are insults.

I won’t repeat them as Scripture’s truth.

I grieve for every woman
who heard these lines read over her
in a church,
in a kitchen,
in a court,
and believed them.

And for every wife
sent away
because she would not go
as she was directed.

The old poet of the reed says:
woman is a ray of God;
she is not only the earthly beloved;
she is creative,
not created.

A ray of God.

Husband,
fifty years,
not always in harmony.
Pastor,
reading chapters like this
and not saying enough.
Old man,
on the swing,
her hand on mine,
gathering.

Porch.
Swing.
Hand.
Rib.
Side.
Harmony.
Gathered.
Crown.
Eve.
Ray.

I am a rib.
I was taken from his side.
Not from his head to rule him,
not from his feet to be walked on.
From his side,
near his heart,
to walk beside him.
I don’t belong to him.
We belong
to each other.

And I,
a tenelach,
when the heart is a porch at the close of a long day,
sit beside the one God built from my side,
and put my hand on hers,
and say nothing,
and let the swing move,
and the chains creak,
and see,
in her quiet face,
not the woman the book blamed,
but a ray of God,

shining.

Note: God who built woman from the side of man, not to rule or to be ruled but to walk beside, thank you for fifty years of a wife who stayed in harmony with me when I did not deserve it,
forgive every tongue, the book’s and the church’s and mine, that said sin began with a woman, or called a wife a dragon or venom or garrulous, or sent her away for not going as she was directed,
grieve with every woman who heard these words read over her and believed them, and heal what they broke,
and let me see in every woman a ray of you, creative and not only created, and give me in my old age the crown of rich experience gathered, and her hand on mine.