Miriam by Rachael Clyne

Abegail Morley


I never asked for this heavenly height
which no woman can possibly reach.
As for the mysteries of my womb – don’t ask!

Any Jewish mother thinks her son God
but this was no joke. I was young
and blue was not my colour.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful,
knowing all he did, but being chosen,
as my people know – tsouris mit tsouris.

As a boy he was a bit of a lobbas, too smart
for his own good, it was inevitable
he should be a rabbi; but such a hell raiser?

If I’m honest I’d have preferred a girl
to help me cook and light the Shabbas lights.
I would’ve been a grandma.

What can you do? You’re a mother –
you love, you lose and losing them
hurts like nothing else. You yell at them

to stay safe, you hate them
for throwing their…

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