A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Abraham. What were you thinking nudging Isaac up that hill? You must have known some tests must be refused. You say I shouldn’t judge, that I’ve made my own mistakes and I’m too old now for debate, but Abraham, you lit a fire. You meant to draw the knife across his throat. The story says you killed a goat instead and this morning, reading the papers, I can smell it. That smoke. The greasy residue of burnt flesh. Of villages bombed. Boys trained to kill. Teenagers with AK’s haunting the hallways. Oh Abraham. All those sacrificial children.
Copyright 2018 Deborah Bogen