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.
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