Kira / Kyra / Kiera / Chiera
Greek for ‘lady’, non-muslim (usually Jewish) intermediaries to the Imperial Harem at the court of the Sultan.
Miriam!
My name drops to the ground,
a ripe pomegranate
that has fallen from the tree that holds you.
A dozen Maryams lift their heads,
eyebrows furrowed as they search
for the mouth that has brought me to the ground -
again.
Your teeth are crimson with its juice -
the sweetness so sharp it makes my skin prick.
Surely they can taste what they can’t see,
can hear the Song of Songs
that whispers in the air
as I dance across the Isthmus between us.
The last 49 days I have mourned the mourning
that kept me from you.
My pious father standing up to praise the Earth,
as yours bends down to kiss it.
My father knows the joy I have found here,
in counting the 99 names
of the One who made us one.
And so he kept me home to count the omer,
beseeching me to remember the love between Him and I, too.
But I know that you know
that my mind was always with you,
imagining the freedom we might find
lodged between the high walls of the Sultan’s harem -
“While the king was at his table,
my perfume spread its fragrance.
13 My beloved is to me a sachet of myrrh
resting between my breasts.
14 My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms
from the vineyards of En Gedi.”
(Song of Songs 1:12-14)
And so my feet climb the Cedar
at the corner of His garden.
And I reach for your hand that speaks of Henna,
and I take it in mine and lean close,
trying to read the words that sink into your skin.
And I hear you say -
Al-Wadud (the loving One) -
and I know that it’s true,
and Baruch Hashem,
I know that you are, too.