BRONZE SERPENT

Photo by Ivars Krutainis on Unsplash

You bent back the iron water, your word wrenched

a weedy passage for my naked feet.

You unshackled your darling, led me into the desert

howl, wanting to be the one, the only one,

my jealous love, to sift manna from sky, gush 

water from rock. And how

you endure me, my tantrums, my abject refusal 

to see the milk and honey 

from afar. You give me a closer sign of healing, 

teach me to gaze. I don’t want 

the serpent bites, I just want to get there 

already. How gentle, the way

you heal the venom, supply the antidote—lift my eyes 

to your metallic serpentine symbol

glimmering with Abraham’s vast expectation, diamond-

clear in the night sky.

You raise up healing out of sheer desert, beckon me, 

after all these years, stunned, 

stumbling. You inch me closer 

to the land. You fulfill, which is to say

you are.