The Wheat and the Tares

(Daughters of the King, my friend rebukes me, are never weeds.)

My father was only a king of dreams.
I married Pontius for security and his
mastery of everything, including our bed.

I learned to love the man, packaging
my life with his, even here in this
forsaken and uncivilized post.

We dine with adjuncts, their wives,
and local potentates. Our table boasts
the best this scrubby little tributary

can offer, and as procurator
Pontius imports delicacies from across
the Empire. We live above it all.

Yet, I am fascinated by the young
Teacher. So apolitical.  So radically
unwise and generous with care.

I collect stories of every woman
with whom he speaks. Secretly
I send gold coins with Joanna and

Susannah.  And if, when I finally slip
away to meet him, he calls me
"daughter," it is only to open my heart:

I weep like a silly child.

I tell Pilate to have nothing to do
with this man's death, but see
how he listens to me?

It's bigger than any of us. All my husband's
good works, and it's this one crucifixion
he'll be remembered for.

In dreams most nights I see fields
of grain--the way we Romans plant--
the purple vetch among the weeds.

I don't know why, oh, I don't know why
I should feel this glad in the economy
of a Hebrew God.