In one retelling, the angel comes too late
and Isaac suffers the blade on the altar.
In another, he descends three days after,
born new in ash. Or was it Ishmael, white
robed and copper skinned, almost to Abraham’s height
when kneeling, true favorite son, who filtered
faith through shame? Sand in his eyes, who watched his father’s
hand midair, unsheathed, then God’s brusque tone, Wait?
See them gather at their father’s tomb, each grieving
son hero in rival histories. One still smells
ram burning in his place; one recalls the bending
finger beckoning; one remembers breathing
hot cinders. Crowd of kings, not touching, as bells
toll. In the middle of each story, this ending.
——
[Publisher's note: Shortly after this poem first appeared on Revolving Floor, Joy Walden of KBPR Radio read it on her Comfort And Joy show, which comes on Sundays at 10AM Arizona time, and is rebroadcast Thursdays at 9 pm. Listen to the audio below.]
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