Jonathan of the tribe of Benjamin,
the Name does not care where your bed is made
or with whom.
In the high places, you lie
next to your father, your faces equal-empty,
eyes scooped and sealed.
Below, David rages back and forth
across the plains. You cannot see him, or he you.
You lie with your hand on your father's hilt,
his sword buried deep in your belly. You lie
together in last embrace, under
the sun's judging eye.
Michal is weeping, in her bridal suite.
David is weeping, on the plain below—sweat
dapples his face, and tears, and blood.
His mouth is hot, lips twisted painful;
his teeth grind.
Above, your lips cool, opening to admit the breeze,
the flies. The Name's kiss, His dread brazen voice
telling you: You have chosen the wrong king
between two kings, the wrong
love, between two loves.
No shame in your heart, even as it slows. So
was it another sting of guilt that spurred you to this,
for loving one not of your blood
better than your own blood's instigator?
(Yet all things come not from Saul but Him,
who made Saul,
in the end.
And forgetting this, not doing the other,
has been your only true mistake.)
Jonathan of Benjamin's tribe, the Name
has never cared where your bed was made,
or with whom—not once, not ever.