Like Jacob Grasping Esau

 

 

Your twin brother is always leaving the womb ahead of you,

So you clutch his heel as he emerges. You don’t want birthright,

You want to face the light with one who also faced the darkness.

 

If the desert winds don’t kill you, they’ll still scatter your bones.

All life is erosion, all flesh sandstone, and Eden’s an oasis

You’re either leaving or seeking, but nevertheless is miles away.

 

The charmer keeps playing for fear of the cobra’s flange and hiss.

That rhythm is the only thing out here that will save your life.

Once bitten, your arm darkens to night sky, and you roam the stars.

 

Flaubert loved the camel, a giraffe with the stuffing knocked loose,

Steeped in its own stench, ornery enough to survive a waterless month.

He spent weeks mimicking its spittlesome call.  The angels tuned in.

 

Saints see the desert as home.  Pioneers find a wasteland to skirt.

Ten thousand years burnished each sand grain to a mirror.

The Bedouins merely walk on, staring beyond ranks of mirages.

 

Along the dunes, sidewinders have inked a calligraphy of names.

The sun is trying to explain what transpires in the heart of a star.

Out here, your only birthrights are wind and the endless heavens.

Temple Cone

Barnwood poetry magazine