The Ark Speaks | Diane Hartman
When the man built me, my rough planks were
pounded together, one against the other,
to form an enormous floating vessel.
“Ark” he named me, a carriage of safety.
The blood from the man’s injured hands
seeped into my crevices, like wine spilled
across a wooden altar, sealing God’s promise
of salvation by means of one good man.
He didn’t seem that good to me,
angrily cursing at the mocking crowd,
ordering his family around like they were slaves,
inebriated, staggering with unearned swagger.
He was the chosen one?
Then the animals arrived, a cacophony of relentless
noise and arduous movement. And I was afraid.
There were too many. How could I hold all of them?
The Deluge came next.
The remaining animals hustled in as God
heaved the door shut to the cries of
the drowning crowd. What loving God does this?
Day became night and night became day.
I struggled to stay afloat through the weight
of their shuffling. “Stay still!” my boards groaned,
until finally the women took charge
and the animals became calm.
The rain stopped, but we floated on.
The raven didn’t return, and all were restless.
I thought about giving up, of letting my bulging
sides surrender to the water. But I was chosen too.
Chosen to give every living thing a second chance.
The dove returned bearing an olive branch.
She flew off again and did not come back.
Those aboard waited impatiently until
my worn-out body struck some rocks.
They disembarked chaotically, my boards
bearing the weight of their self-centered descent.
While I who had saved them was left to rot.
The obedience of one is the salvation of many.