by Judy Galbraith

Your name will no longer be Jacob,
but Israel, because you have struggled
with God and with men. . . . Genesis 32: 24

Did You know
when You pointed me
towards the dim light,
this desert, alone,
that You and I would lock
in one another's arms,
wrestling?

I don't know why,
nor who You are, for sure,
but I am holding, holding tight,
as though on the rim of gaping
night
about to fall.

Did You know before
that I, boneworn and finger-
sore,
would not let go?

II

The wilderness hours are desert dark:
sand on the tongue. I am holding on,
unwavering until night wanes.
You tear my thigh, wrestling
for my name . . . which
I yield: "I am
Grasper of the Heel, a shadow
weaver, and refugee.
Curse, bless me now--end
this impasse,"
I pray.

Out of the fleshwet clinging
of the windless night,
of the breathless night immured
in relentless dust,
of the loneliness
at a river's ford,
You rename me, proclaim
me--a Struggler with God and men.
(Is this fate or favor?)

Our holds break with the dawn.

III

As the sun rises, I limp
past where I've seen Your face.
As I lift my eyes, I see
him coming--my dark,
unbridled twin
whose heel I've grasped, jostling
from the womb--advancing
with the sun (and
his four hundred men).

My hands folded
and his outstretched,
I can
not speak. My eyes
fail.

He grabs my neck

and weeps. I

vow: "Seeing you
is like seeing
the face of God."

(I withdraw
to find shelter.)

IV

Son of Man,
assailant, kin,
what could I have
that You want?

V

Out of an olive grove's stillness,
sleepers rouse to the rhythm of marching,
to hollow commands in the shadows,
stirring rocks to lamentation.

Outside an unclean courtroom
the heat of small, hungry flames surges
in drafty vessels, rioting
to reign, and yet
no light.

Water in a laver quakes.

This time I have You.

After the blood and pounding,
shouting and tears upon the rocks,
after the darkness and the mocking,
thundering silence and--
only that--

"He who was living is now dead."

You
yield
blood and pulse.

I
smother
in untimely night.

You do not let go.

There in the stony silence
of a burial garden, abandoned,
a cock's crow heralds
daybreak,
as footsteps sing
from an empty doorway.

VI

Who is that walking
always toward me?
The trees whisper
with presence, traced
like a breath, barely but very . . .
. . . whis-
tling,
now gone, it seems,
and yet, again ... I hide
in the darkness. Yet,
here
is the sighing, soft
as the outline
of a face, fracturing night.

About the Author
Judy Galbraith is a graduate of the MFA program at Arizona State University. She is a member of the English faculty at Paradise Valley Community College in Phoenix where she teaches composition and journalism.