Jezebel - Jezebel

On Wednesday afternoon we are sitting stiff
in poetry class waiting for God
to arrive. She enters, and sits at the head
of a conference table full of women,
but recently called girls. She
is the poet, the teacher, the creator of worlds
anthologized, memorized.
She speaks and there is light, they say.

I look around the room and see us:
saints and angels, or better yet
the virgins, the daughters, the righteous whores.
There is Eve, always the first to speak
and always the first to regret it. She bites
into her thoughts raw, and secretly
we thank her for it. Then there is Sarah,
a senior stumped by the value of discussion
and certain that she has no more
to offer. But she laughs at the silly things
that others say, and can’t see
that this is her contribution.
There is Rachel, beloved in spite
of her vapid insight and mimicry
of God. God doesn’t seem
to mind. Leah gives more
and her thoughts speak for her when the coat
is sewn and judgments fly. But leave it
to Miriam to lead us out of slavery
to consider the beauty of songs again.
Then we reach the prophets, a few
famous and so many unnoted
who speak the words of God verbatim.
They receive some help
but little praise, thank God,
and the hour moves forward sluggishly.

I could wait in anticipation for the virgin
mother—I have my suspicions.
She comes in with Elizabeth
every Wednesday, silent both.
By the face of her friend you can sense the ideas
forming, leaping. Her quiet is naïve
but Our Lady’s is radiant, brimming
with the inspiration to save us all.

But I don’t believe in any of it.
Call me a false prophet,
call me loose, throw me
out the window in a room with only
doors. I am Jezebel.
I can make my idols
as well as God. Let there
be light, let there be hell,
let me be eaten by the dogs
and the critics
in the street.