Leah Names her Sons

I knew I was marrying bitterness --

knew he wouldn't want me, weak-eyed,

too old. For my sister's sake

he rolled the boulder from the well,

her sheep he watered, her throat

he kissed. My father demanded

seven years' service as a bridal price

and put stones in my mouth

when I would deny his plan:

a night-wedding, a heavy veil,

and Jacob too hasty even

to steal a kiss. He took me

in darkness and joy and called me

Rachel, Rachel.

                          And I answered.

Of course, I did. I knew I'd get

one night's tenderness, one dawn's

sleepy smile before that look

of stunned despising. He spent

a second seven years my father's shepherd

to get Rachel. Slept out with the flock

most nights, or came, manure

matting his hair, his back as hard

as baked clay, his thrusts

brutal. I bore him sons,



and named them

               see, a son

named them

               prayer answered

named them

               my husband love me.



But he did not soften, went always

to Rachel, by then sister-wife, her womb

empty as a used-up well. My boys.



I named them

               sing praise

named them

               just reward

named them

               my husband exalt me.



Jacob, you found in me

a salted country, a nation of bitterness.

The old gods gave to women --

too old, weak-eyed -- a witchy power.

I would use it, Rachel, to set a stone

into your womb, to name you

mother of weeping, name you

comfortless. And father,

night-bargainer, slave-maker, a stone

on your tongue, dust for your thirst,

and the border of my country,

stones, stones, stones.

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Compare Genesis 29 -- I've made pretty free with it. I will credit (or blame) Robert Alter for this one too.