POEM | Noah’s Wife’s Lament, Genesis 6:13–18

by Mark Green

I. “No, go away. Your words just suck the life From me and now our sons are scared of you With all your fatal talk of rain and storm. Leave me to weep on all you’ll take from us.”

I watch him go, his shoulders curved beneath A weight I can no longer bear. Where is That former comfort we all shared before His crazy dream about some future flood

Eroded all our family’s faith. The boys, Now men, do want to trust and love the man Who taught them how to hunt and build and live A life of faith among our faithless friends.

Confused, like me, they try to summon hope For one we thought we knew so well until That day we searched and searched and then we saw Him pacing out some vision in the desert sand.

II. I turn away and wander in the garden he Designed for me when he first brought me here. “Trust me, Ganny, watch and see what these young hands Will build for you, though now you can’t conceive

That fruit will bloom, and all around this place Your friends will see what tender care brings forth When hands that love you love as well this land, You will see it grow as my love grows for you.”

I watched with disbelief but then it grew, Wild, at first, but in his gentle hands Delirious beauty blossomed unashamed To bear the fruit of my lover of the soil.

My tears fall on the flowers of these vines, My love for him all tangled up, confused With questioning grief that he will take it all— This life, our home—and wash it clean away.

III. Out on the plains, I see his hardened frame Toiling in the furnace of his calling. It isn’t that he doesn’t love this garden, Or me. I presume, it’s what he has to do

To see it through. Somewhere out beyond our sons Are wrestling with themselves and hordes of demons Whispering in their ears that there’s no future And yet still they love their father in his quest.

Across the skyline of another sunset I view in rows what little wealth we have, Scant mounds of faith against our flood of doubts, Those ancient woods felled by his aging hands.

I stand alone, hungry in this parched And dry garden, struggling with my husband’s plan. I’m still not sure his craft is good enough To create the space where we begin again.