God gave me a rose, A delicate thing and beautiful, Trembling in the breath of God, Tearful in the showered rain.
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This poem reflects on the thoughts and feelings of the Samaritan woman when she encountered Jesus on a routine visit to her town’s well, as recorded in John’s gospel (4:1–42).
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We have put you on a pedestal,
scattered petals at your marble feet.
Entombed now in stone,
once their warm flesh danced in Cana
Education polishes gems
Even diamonds can be polished
by knowledge liberally applied
Your life will be my life, and my life yours.
Your son will be my son, his Father my Father.
My mama allows it could've been rape
and it might've, you know, unsettled her mind.
Grandma, who's lived with us since grandpa died,
declares she's just a little whore,
probably with some low-ranking Roman,
who's trying to hide her dirty skirts behind blasphemy.
Either way, my mama says, I should watch and remember
how easy a girl becomes trash and has to leave town,
probably for good,
and you can bet her little bastard won't be around
to take care of her when she's old.
