The Text Doesn’t Say What Cain Said to Abel

I said what jealous eldests say to favored
siblings: You’re not one of us. You don’t even
look like us. My father is not your father.
My mother is not your mother. You’re not
my real brother. You’re a bother. You’re
entirely other. Lord, I did what You wanted.
I othered Abel. What nations do when
they prepare for war. How murder gets
enabled. In truth, You finagled. Who
doesn’t like a grilled green pepper, chile
rellenos? Roasted corn, with lime & cotija
cheese? You chose drama, a plot-driven
story, ate burnt flesh wanting followers,
a wide audience, your higher purpose.

Was it also for the sake of a good story
you made us conquer the promised land?
Couldn’t you simply have cleared the way
for us, spared us the need to go to war,
maim & kill? Lord, what kind of promise calls
for re-conquering in every generation?
What kind of guarantee requires such numbers?
When, in Joshua, we didn’t erase the “other,”
you raged until we brought down every king,
cut thumbs & great toes. Sure the rabbis find
ways to explain these things away, what we
can’t comprehend, etc., but, Lord, couldn’t you
be a God without the prerogative of Gods?
Or just let us see the forest, not only trees.

Allowing us to see the big picture
would grant us a level of omnipotence
you might be unwilling to share. Your purpose
remains obscure to us, your chosen, your
favorite people. Chosen for what? I’m not
the first to ask. You could change it up, choose
another people for awhile, as Kadia M.
suggests, see how they like it. If there had to be
a first murder, I would rather you’d sent
Abel to kill me. I do love my brother.
What came out of my mouth, the infamous
“Am I my brother’s keeper” was a cry.
You hurt me. I was angry. A jealous
God, you know exactly how envy works.

A seething experience, envy doesn’t let
its victim rest. You don’t need me to tell you,
Lord. You’ve been running on it forever,
for all our sinning generations. You sent
so many new plagues, dipping to count them
would empty our cups, leave no wine to bless
you with. To counter all this punishment,
we had to up our game, build towers,
technologies. Lord, your temps these days
are so high, humidity off the charts. If you’re
going to do 90s, at least send wind,
a breeze to refresh, inspire us to Elul,
to return & repent, to pray & praise.
Lord, don’t let your goodness go to waste.

Good Lord, you answered my prayers.
This morning the breeze is so deliciously
chill, my windows are open & I’m working
outside in a sweater. I’m not sweating it,
not in body or mind. My words of praise
are flowing. I’m in awe & grateful. I’m
liking summer once again, as I did
when I was a child, waking early to
morning sounds: the birds, the screen door
yawning, my mother’s voice, soft & yearning.
Not yet angry. Fragrant farina cooking
on the stove. In the sunlit air above
my bed, in bungalow #19, dancing
dander beckoned me to see, to be.

To be, to see, to dance like a dervish.
What I learned wandering with my forehead
marked. Sufis taught me. Kabbalists welcomed
me. Not You, Lord. You were all thunder
& lightning. I needed the opposite.
I embraced silent retreat, counted breaths,
lived in the now, in present tense. Learned
to give moments my full attention. Finally,
rage quelled, envy expunged, I could contemplate
the sequence of events that got me here.
How it started with offerings, how you
rejected mine, greens of the field, fruit of my
labor. How after, you turned the ground against
me, made my work harder. Is this justice?

O, just God, merciful God, El Khanun.
I haven’t experienced you this way, but Lord
if you clear my name, make the world forget
the first murder, I will sing Ma Tovu anyway.
I will forgive your bad parenting, sing only
of your goodness, Ma Tovu. I will retrain
my eyes to see only the positive, Ma Tovu.
School my mind toward optimism, Ma Tovu.
My heart to gratitude, Ma Tovu. I will
stand with Balaam, praise the way we
pitched our tents for privacy, honor every
shul & temple, all the sanctuaries
of all denominations, Ma Tovu.
Become a better brother, Ma Tovu.