Proof
She lifts the cloth from the bowl, inhaling
the sour scent of dough ready for shaping.
Stretch, fold, like this—her practiced hands excel
at teaching her daughter to feed herself.
He is come! Voices pull them from their task
and she grabs the girl’s hand. This is her chance.
The one who can heal anything surely
can advance a blessing. They run quickly—
there, beside the gate—it must be him. But wait,
many mothers and fathers anticipate
their own child’s troubles and press them forward.
Important men rebuke, shouting orders.
Give the rabbi room! Your crowding offends.
But he is saying something to the men.
She cannot hear it. Now he is reaching
out to a little one, again breaching
schedules, expectations, hierarchy.
At home the dough has proofed already;
it spills over and comes to ruin. This
night they’ll eat yesterday’s dry crumbs, because
this is her chance to prove a faith that can
feed them beyond any bread in the hand.
Emily Updegraff lives near Chicago. She studied genetics and then turned her attention to mothering, working in university administration, reading, and writing. She is just beginning to find ways to share her poems. “Proof” is in the midrashic tradition of an imaginative paraphrase of scripture.
