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eshet chayil mi yimtza
A good question, let us consider it carefully. She took tea with the witch onceuponatime and discussed it on tiptoe. The witch speaks in well-reasoned tufts of nothingness, on this subject as all others. Candy-floss and quick suppression of suspiration define the meat of her discourse. So the conversation was like that, set to the rhythm of the spoons against the cupsandsaucers.
The witch does not understand what a woman is, what a man is, what a person is. She can only make them with words.
That is why we take tea with the witch in cautious charity.
êšeṯ ḥayil mî yimṣā
Surely, a worthy query! In the shade of the swamp at last she put it to the little prophet, and to her surprise got no answer. The prophet ran dirty hands through short-cropped hair and took out a cigarette but didn’t quite manage to light it. The prophet hissed through the nose and kicked at the moss. The prophet shrugged.
“I thought the words were out here, I’m asking you for a word,” she said. “Give me the word.”
“If I knew that one I’d go straight to Heaven,” said the prophet. “What do you think keeps me from the mountaintop?”
A crow lifted from the treetops with an uneasy croak.
אֵֽשֶׁת־ חַ֭יִל מִ֣י יִמְצָ֑א
What a question that is! Don’t ask the boy with the angel face, all he knows is dancing, all he’s ever known are tomcats and dogfoxes. My little Irish, my little syncretist, you cut-rate Aquinas you. He’s hand-in-glove with the king of jacks these days, the little liar and the big one, that dark paw enfolding that pale hand. You’d have to unlace their fingers before you got a straight answer out of him. Even then it wouldn’t be worth much.
He and the prophet were always closer than they looked; you revile most the thing that fits most neatly into the velvety pouch of your heart.
a woman of valor, who can find?




