THE WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY

It really had almost nothing to do
with me. I understood that nearly
from the first. Somehow his wife
had wormed it out of him, our liaisons
I mean. I hated her then for that
but now . . . well, time is healing
salve. Had I been in her place . . .
But that is neither here nor there.

The point is I was terrified. Oh,
not the stoning. I really never
thought that it would come to that.
It was the shame, ruin of everything
I was or hoped to be. My father would,
I knew, turn his back on me. And did.

Try to understand. Try to imagine
being snatched from lover's bed,
clutching cloth to cover your
trembling body, being dragged through
streets, then thrown like trash
before the one they called the rabbi.

I knew what they were up to.
I'd heard how they were out
to get him into trouble. Yes,
they used me as their bait.
Men are very good at that,
using us, I mean.

He knelt down then, acted
like he hadn't heard the charge
they brought against me, hadn't
heard their question put to him.

He fingered figures in the dust.
I wish that I could tell you what he wrote.
I cannot. Then he stood and faced them,
calm as an unfluttered flag.
He spoke and knelt again and wrote.

One by one they went away, eyes downcast,
faces sour and sullen. He rose and looked
me in the face. His eyes were bathed
in light. They spoke to me his sorrow,
not contempt. I wonder to this day
what he felt sorry for: for me, for those
who walked away, for all of us,
himself included? Some say when
he was hanging on the cross he prayed
forgiveness for the very ones who'd
hung him up to die. If so, I'm not surprised.
I'm not surprised at all.

(Published in the current issue - October 2012 - of MESSENGER magazine)