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Miriam's Lament
Ilana Kurshan
My brother led the people from on high.
A former prince, he kept his regal mien,
When raising up his staff or splitting seas
Or listening to a bush he said he’d seen.
He didn’t need his family by his side
He left them back in Midian and returned
To free his people! So he said God charged
His wife joined later. Did he even yearn?
And when he climbed that mountain, forty days
I wonder if he even said goodbye,
He left her, once again, to talk to God,
No wonder I was pained to hear her cry.
I know that husbands leave. My father tried
To leave when Pharaoh sentenced boys to drown
I made sure he came back to Mother’s arms
“We can’t let evil Pharaoh drag us down.”
I bore my mother’s pain, for I was left,
By many men as well, ‘til Caleb came
Abandonment’s not something you forget
Some call me Azuvah, my other name.
And so, yes, I told Aaron my concern
When once again Tziporah stood alone,
“It’s no excuse to claim he talks to God,
We’re prophets too,” I harped and I bemoaned.
I spoke ill of my brother. It was wrong.
I know that. I’m prepared to take the heat
To shed my bitterness, if only he
Would come back home and make the bitter sweet.
Dear Moses, you’re God’s prophet. Understand
That doesn’t mean you can’t still be a man.
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The Talmud teaches that the Torah was given in black fire on white fire (Y. Shekalim 6:1). The black fire is the letters of the Torah scroll, and the white fire is the parchment background. In this column, consisting of a poem on each parashah, I will try to illuminate the white fire of Torah – the midrashim, stories, and interpretations that carve out the negative space of the letters and give them shape.
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