Elijah asks, "What have I done to you?"—Anna Friedrich

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Elijah asks, "What have I done to you?"

by Anna A. Friedrich

Far off, I knew
your once-white robe from local lore—
rusted red, since Carmel. Now

you come? A storm
of a man, barreling down 
towards me—plough in hand
—in father’s field. Twelve yoke 

of oxen leaning, heave, mastery—
impossible, but I am

apprenticed in making each move
known through hand and hide and will.

Two fields away, I knew you 
would not turn, and true, you fixed your gaze—
(eyes like Yahweh) on the rope

that led from beast to beast
to me. They say 

the flames that fell—the flames
that felled Baal, by your own
tongue— stained you,
your clothes. Burnt? No,

each thread caught up, undone,
remade, in heaven’s answer. You wear 

the story everywhere you go. Here
your stride slows
just enough 

for that same cloak 
to fall on me,
unbidden.

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Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and Arts Pastor in Boston, Massachusetts. Her first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Wipf and Stock. You can subscribe to her poem-a-Wednesday Substack at annaafriedrich.substack.com.