Three Poems from Yahweh Loves a Desert

1 Kings 17:20. Elijah asks,
“LORD my God, have you brought tragedy even on this widow I am staying with, by causing her son to die?”

They call me Troubler,
Drought-Throat, Brook-bent
Wanderer— I am

Sidon’s choirmaster, where (Yahweh—
why?) no one sings. We thirst

while questions like vinegar
fill our mouths— I wait

with David’s How long songs
winding a way along

my dreams, into the rhythm
of my step, my staff (how long?)—

Her home (what has been
mine) sits silent at the table
of this tragedy— prepared
by you? Her cup

overflows

though the valley
of the widow’s mouth

is gullied out, edge-cracked,
sunken. On the bed

her only son lies dead. And you?

Your silence, Yahweh,
eats away at tender
flesh— if I lay down
this question, please

pick it up. Play the harp again
for us, for her. I hear a call

(you? LORD my God?)
to the upper room. The wailing
has begun. If I, under this

mantle, stretch out
myself across the boy—

if I lie down
into his death, tell me
who will rise again?

1 Kings 18:7, 9, 13. Obadiah asks Elijah,
“Is it really you…? What have I done wrong…? Haven’t you heard…?”

The word of the LORD
sits up inside me— I turn

into a storm
—a blind
swelling of judgment

and hope (your hesed
endures forever). The blood

of the prophets alive
in my ears— though I hear

rain and rain and rain, all I can
taste is fire. Ahab, they say,

is searching, hunting (who hasn’t
heard his Jezebel’s threats? Shall I run
from Samaria’s doom?)—

Tell your king it took three years
for our springs and valleys,

our deepest wells, to return
to dust— now locusts

swarm, now no one sleeps. Obadiah,
when prophets hide

the word of the LORD retreats
into dirt and stone— I am

the only one left.
Is it really you? he asks—

the word of the LORD waits
like lightning

—yes.

1 Kings 19:9, 13. The LORD asks,
“What are you doing here, Elijah?” ...
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Prophet, I direct the birds
                of a thousand skies. I tell ravens where
                                to relinquish prey.

I send out angels armed
                with loaves of bread,
                                baked over hot coals.

Tell me, Man, in Zarephath,
                did her flour jar prove empty?
                                Did the jug of oil run dry?

The life-breath returned
                to the boy, lying under
                                the weight of your prayer?

Three times already I’ve told you Go—
                (the angels hum the cadence of your yes)
                                Elijah, your ups and downs are almost

music— Lift your eyes! Remember how fire fell
                and rain returned, how you ran to Jezreel as if
                                eternal life livened your limbs— now this?

If Jezebel’s oath chased you here to my Mount,
                if one woman’s voice conquers you
                                in this cave, brace yourself in the dark, Man—

for no wind
                no earthquake
                                no fire can whisper
                                                the word of the LORD to you here.

Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and arts pastor in Boston. She putters in the garden, as well as with paint and textiles. Her poetry tends toward devotional, and is nearly always wrestling with the Bible in some way or another. Her work can be found in CRUX, Fare Forward, the Rabbit Room’s Poetry Substack, and Common Good, among others. Anna was a contributor to Every Moment Holy, Vol III, and her first book of poetry, Under the Terebinth, was published in 2024. Her latest manuscript, Yahweh Loves a Desert, from which these poems were drawn, is forthcoming from Square Halo Books.