The women who could not bear children
at first:
Sarai, Rachel, Rebekah, Hannah,
Samson’s mother—name not given
Elisabeth—John the Baptist’s mother
and Michal—the one that got away—
Their persistent asking
amidst improvisations
was the knowing
that they were capable,
deserving and worthy.
Such confidence!
Had they believed they were barren,
truly,
they would not have eventually
conceived.
Day and night they travailed
driven by intensity of their need.
The wretchedness of longing,
their hearts’ desires to give life to—
I hate to compare
with my own hunger—
a yearning that never goes
away—to hold into my arms
what I’ve made in love,
nurtured with love,
for months, years…
Like poetry, children
are not products but
life’s fruit manifesting
in form, toil, and prayer.
In joy and quest,
simply to be—
the becoming,
a miracle that surprises
and sustains.
And so these women, their
eyes once blue and brown
turned red looking at what
could not be theirs—silently
cursing all the rug rats born
easily, year on to year.
They envied goats their kids,
all the fecund lot.
Naturally, bitterness crept
in while still refusing the evidence
of what was seen as—
childless.
Not barren, their solid trust.
Such faith!
The Lord in his air-conditioned,
meat-provided temple finally heard
their never-ending cassette cries.
Perhaps he got tired or bored.
He rose from his high seat and spoke:
You shall have what you ask for.
He remembered each
and opened their wombs. Except Michal
He remembered each of them
in their old age.
Let’s stay with Sarai—
she couldn’t haul her stricken bones
without her joints crackling—
confirmed crepitus. Sagging breasts,
holed teeth. Calcium gone.
So, she laughed! Let’s be honest—
who wouldn’t?
She could not recall when
she’d last made love with Abraham—
that rascal of a husband who once betrayed
her to a pagan king? Lust counts. Still—
How was this child to be born?
The Lord of incongruity heard her laugh
and he sighed for a second time.
Rose from his throne and paced a bit.
He’d have to find new messengers speak
to that son-of-a- Abraham,
convince him to light a candle,
get some incense. Be romantic.
Myrrh— Abraham suggested.
Heck no. That’s for funerals.
Nobody dies. Find something
exotic. Desert herb—rosemary
or sweet marjoram.
Suffice it to say that Abraham obeyed,
and shaved. In the absence of bottled
after-shave, he used cloves. Sarai glanced
at him and remembered their youth,
how she had loved and forgiven him.
He was wrinkly now but he smelled nice!
Earthy and sweet. For a moment he even looked
like beautiful. She summoned whatever strength
left in her bones and made a special dinner—
lamb spiced with mint was his favorite,
crushed pistachios in the sauce. A basket
of barley bread. They would eat together
in silence—that was it. The air
of resignation loomed.
That was it—no heirs. End of a life.
They would have dinner—
They were quiet for a while until
something stirred in both.
Sarai’s hand stretched across the table.
Abraham reached out and held it,
smoothed the calluses, then kissed them.
She smiled and felt a fire, a bout of arthritis
and was about to withdraw the tingly hand
when Abraham raised it toward his lips,
again. He thanked her for the delicious meal.
Before she could say, We are old together,
Abraham whispered, Lie next to me.
And she did.
A breeze from the east ruffled
their tent flaps and the two snuggled up.
All those years of waiting,
all she’d ever wanted was to swaddle
a newborn. Hold it tightly in her arms.
Was that too much to ask?
Here she was, holding her elderly husband
instead. And then, then
a quickening in her loins in his loins
I-mpo-ssible, they almost said at once, but
understood what was happening—
a mercy, at last.
And God was happy and demanded more meat
until Isaac was born.
Mildred Kiconco Barya is a North Carolina-based writer and poet of East African descent. She teaches and lectures globally, and is the author of four full-length poetry collections, most recently The Animals of My Earth School (Terrapin Books, 2023). Her prose, hybrids, and poems have appeared in the New England Review, The Cincinnati Review, Shenandoah, Joyland, Tin House, The Forge, and elsewhere. She serves on the board of African Writers Trust and coordinates the Poetrio Reading events at Malaprop’s Independent Bookstore/Café. She blogs here:www.mildredbarya.com
