Patriarchal Blessing

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The boy, sixteen, is taller than his mother, taller than
the creaky man with shining eyes and trembling hands. 

Mother comes fasting, something she’s good at, 
years of honing her physical yearnings 
into empty bowls to catch spiritual manna. 
And now she is empty of all but her hope 
of hearing the voice of God through this old man. 
Her son, the first fruit of her labors, 
a rough-cut stone but the best she could do— 
and would God touch this stone with his finger? 

Her son folds into the chair with a quick glance 
at her, an echo of the glance he gave her long ago 
the day he stood to join his father in the font. 
And maybe now the father will join them 
in spirit? She, longing, glances to the corners of the room. 

The trembling hands are stilled on the boy’s head, 
as if the words of power give them weight, 
words that dart like lightning in the air 
And dance upon her eyelids. She opens them 
to watch the old man, ageless, shine like sun, 
his voice a whisper still but piercing bright. 

The mother sits and holds the hand of God— 
for once she feels she’s truly not alone 
in her sweet knowledge of her son’s good heart. 
She weeps to hear God tell her of the man 
he will become, this boy she’s nursed with blood 
and milk, and tears, 
this boy, a shining sword, a man of God. 

And in the silence when the blessing’s done
the son stands up and shyly takes her hand. 
The old man, feeble now, stands at the door,
winking in the glitter of the stars. 
For days those flashing words will dance like sparks
around her ears, behind her eyes and in the air— 

as if she walked with diamonds in her hair.