Look At It This Way; The Hand That Feeds
Look At It This Way
Delilah was a Philistine,
Samson. You were a man
dedicated to being the end of her
kind. So when she curved her body
around yours, you were smart
to lie, the way it is always
smart to lie to someone you love.
And when you woke tied in vines,
don’t pretend you didn’t know
why. You lied because you
understood a woman’s loyalty.
But she asked again
and again with her mouth,
with her body, and you were a man.
You told her what she wanted
to hear, fell asleep with your head
on her knees like a child in prayer.
Samson, you knew what morning
would bring. Don’t tell me
you didn’t. You woke with your
head shaved, with God
gone and Delilah watching you
with the look of a woman
who knew the moment you fell
in love with her that you were
destined to destroy her.
The Hand That Feeds
When you came to town, I couldn’t look
away. I sat at your feet, my hair spilling
across them, and broke a jar of oil
against the ground. It has always been
my way to make the grand gesture,
to freely give my wine and worship.
But my sister shows her love in quiet
ways, with the work of her hands,
the time she spends over a hot stove,
burning the soft skin of her forearms,
with the sweat that soaks her dress
as she feeds you, serves you.
She couldn’t resist asking why
you let me leave her to work alone,
as if she too didn’t wish to be on the floor
before you. I was guilty
when you rebuked her.
You preferred my open infatuation
to her small, solid offering
of everything she knew. I watched
you bite into the gristle of the meat
she gave, tear it with your teeth.
I watched her dip your bread
into honey like a baptism.
If I had known then, I’d have told
her Martha, he’ll raise the dead
for you. He’ll eat your sins.