Ziphorah

She washed the road’s dust from my face, touched my weary hand with her bare fingers briefly – like a sparrow flipping its wings and left – watching me from afar. I had no claim for justice, nor brothers or sons. With me only a thirsty herd and a blood stain, while she watched me from afar – dark daughter of the desert tribes of Arabia. Forget the voice, forget the calling. She was the first fire sent to me and I answered, Ziphorah, the dark skinned Ziphorah - Who cleaned my hair and face from the road’s dust. Now I hear her voice and the voice of the slaves, the voice of the children hushed by a shadow, the waves of murderous waters and the bawling of the golden calf – I hear her voice out of the tent. In this desert I stand alone with my wooden staff. Who are all those children I saved when near an unnamed wheel on an unnumbered day I helped the seven sisters of Midian?