In January I wrote a poem for Rachel Barenblat of Velveteen Rabbi, in which I said,

There are no words to help the women who see
the mute sacrifice of a bloody napkin. No one offers
a ram instead. No one explains. No one promises
a glorious kingdom. You can try again. That's all.

It's not as true now.

Sacrifice

It is only a clearer example of the strangeness
of a God who creates us, and a few decades later
destroys us. We who make it alive out of the womb
may muddy the issue with guilt: we shouldn't have eaten
so much red meat. We shouldn't have smoked cigarettes.
Sure. However, that small heart that formed,
but never began to beat: nobody will lay the blame
on anyone but God. That strange and willful God.

He told Abraham to sacrifice his son, and wrapped
it in words, made it part of the covenant. A one-time deal
in the linear world of the fated kingdoms.
There are no words to help the women who see
the mute sacrifice of a bloody napkin. No one offers
a ram instead. No one explains. No one promises
a glorious kingdom. You can try again. That's all.

We walk to the water, listening,
all the world's women:
we listen for the slantwise words
of books written by men
whose sacrificial altars are
outside their bodies, who think
the Bible is talking about somebody else.