My brother and I
were God's witnesses
in the desert.
He inscribed life
on the rocks,
and I played at imagining
water on the sand,
bitter and dark.

My brother was the chosen one
he received the gift of language.
His demeanor and
courage pleased God.

Angered over my desire
to be a pilgrim just like my people,
God covered my skin
with scales of dead fish.

I remained in a dungeon
and in the pure light of the garden,
of the whole desert,
the women waited for me
singing my name.

Suddenly
I realized
that only my brother
wrote
amid the rocks the dictations of God,
that God who had left me so silent and alone
in the vast solitude of the Sinai.

I stayed behind
with my women
without names,
without history,
without God.
My name is Miriam,
I sing,
I grant words.