Upon Seeing Myself in Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait as the Apostle Paul

If I were to write 

a letter and hold it 

in my hands, fingers 

curled ’round 

the curling edges 

of the words I’d penned,

would you read them? 

 

Or would you 

lean in closer 

for a better look 

at the story 

written on my face—

worry furrowed 

on my brow

from years spent 

casting seeds

of reconciliation 

among the nations 

(or in my case, 

the children 

I’m trying to raise), 

when I can’t 

even reconcile 

myself. 

 

I carry sorrow 

at my side, an ache

between my ribs; 

that’s why I sit 

like this and hold 

my words just so, 

half-hidden 

in my shadow, 

hoping, maybe, 

you’ll be more likely 

to see the question 

suggested by the arch 

of my brow. 

 

If I could, I would 

make space 

within this frame 

for the image 

of a woman bent 

on loving well (but 

never well enough), 

who buries every sorrow 

in her chest—unrelenting 

joy but never rest—

and carries with her 

all the ways she cannot 

make it right. 

 

She tries, freewheeling 

through confession, 

confusion close behind, 

wishing the Word 

she holds would still 

her mind, unlock 

her heart, remove 

the pain of giving 

life and breath. 

 

We women 

do not choose 

if we are sawn in two 

by memories of little ones 

now grown, now lost, now 

buried in a grave; or if 

our agony will come 

 

from empty womb, 

the promise of a life 

unmet, or a child 

whose way of being 

in the world requires us 

to reach more deeply 

than we’ve ever 

reached before 

for something that 

resembles love

to them. 

 

We’re always 

bending in the wind, 

gloves tucked

between our knees, 

reaching for the zipper 

of our child’s favorite

coat, our bodies 

bearing up against 

the buffeting of 

uninvited elements;

 

our comfort, 

when we ask for it, 

coming from a man 

whose body bore 

the buffeting of 

angry men. He gathers 

all our agony 

into the cup, the bitter 

edge of sorrow mixed 

with joy—the pain 

of death, the gift 

of giving life and breath; 

everything the cup 

now holds brightened

with the wild honey 

running from the rock. 

 

We drink from it in turns 

and watch the lasting work 

unfold within the frame 

that is our days, beyond 

the frame that is our life, 

shapes and silhouettes 

expanding with the lifting 

of our heads, opening 

our chests, straightening

our spines; the load 

we bear made lighter 

by the rising of our voices

into sorrow songs 

sung in minor keys, 

harmonies now yielding 

to the melody of Everlasting’s 

bright and bracing 

noonday song.

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The featured image, “Reflection at Timberlakes,” is courtesy of Amelia Friedline and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating.

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