Note: This is a reposting of a poem that was originally written in 2024. I have tightened the stanzas and polished up the writing enough that it’s worth reposting. Hope you enjoy!
"When charging an enemy," his brothers had advised, "if the drive doesn't arise, we imagine these curs in the beds of our sisters, and that stirs the blood 'gainst an enemy attack." Then they'd tousled his hair, on their way to war, calling over shoulders, "Guard our feast for our return!" But those words never stuck. Just a lamb in the maw of a beast, or a giant cursing Israel's God, or a bride's price to earn his spurs ignited the fire to shed blood and kill. Any enemy charging king or prince, found a shepherd's hand to resist. Was this not the same? This tenseness in his chest? Like fingers stuck clenching sword 'till a battle is won, this passion wrapped 'round him demanding justice done. "Rebellious slaves these days," that fool had said —as if David could still sing the king to sleep as if David could return to watching his father's sheep. Nabal must pay for the bandits and wolves he himself had not faced when his senses were dulled to the gift of ease in protecting his sheep. Now another shepherd without flock save an army of four hundred with swords strapped on would cut down every man between Carmel and Paran. But four hundred couldn't sooth David's great pain commandeering as the shepherd's staff and holy space for wrath. And those four hundred would've slaughtered at David's heart's expense had not the scent of meat cut through their intent, reminding him of pangs he'd forgotten in descent. He paused beneath the shadow of the mountain to receive freshly baked bread in baskets overflowing and cakes of raisins and figs dried sweet, skins of wine taken from the drunkard's own seat. And there too, roast lamb, the savory cooked meat succulently wafting like incense for heaven. This was a feast presented on donkeys, gifts to feed the hungry in the presence of enemies. And there behind her gifts rode a warrior of sorts with no sword strapped to thigh like David's cohorts. She bowed low and acknowledged their wounds, and took the blame for wrongs she'd not done. That snapped the cords holding captive his heart letting him breath again like a real warrior at his art. In an instant, flesh's strength lost its vice-like grasp to the abundance brought on donkeys' backs. But lest you, like he, think the heroine is another man's wife, know that later, she was absorbed into the outcasts and in obscurity washed feet like her real Master.
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Oh! I love this!!