At night, David would descend from damp caves
of Ein Gedi, wading in its healing
waters, floating in hypersaline waves
soft as Bathsheba’s future touch, singing
whispers of Yahweh and shepherds. How long
he’d hide from Saul would depend. Jonathan’s
spies would tell him. No thought of right or wrong
now. Power would judge survival. Jordan
lay across bright water, white hills agleam
like salt-covered corpses in stark moonlight.
Still, rippling lake warmed him, lured him to dream
of Hebron and Abraham, of stone’s flight
toward Goliath’s head, of standing alone
in Saul’s palace, praising his bloody throne.
Roger Armbrust
June 16, 2009
