These Fathers

These Fathers

And this father heard his God talk to him:
“Take now thy son, whom thou lovest, 
and offer him for a burnt offering.”
 
 In turn, this father said to this son— high on this mountain top:
“This is the way to kindness and wisdom.
Believe me.”

He stood over his son, this blade in his hand—
held high over him— ready to strike his trusting heart,
sacrifice it to the pyre burning on his lateral side.

This son blinded in a cloth of veils, not pleading 
for his life, because he saw not danger, saw not knife,
heard just the firm reassurance of a father 
speaking common truths to his son.

This father swung and swung 
this blade through the blue air,
until the blade finally struck stone, 
and there was this howl,
and from the pyre 
arose the smell of flesh.  

The veils dropped from the son’s face—
and this son, stood in distance, 
calm fury holding him back
as this father staggered, arms outstretched  
then falling inward, this father 
collapsing more in prayer than posture.
  
No words crossed their air—
only the sound of grief  
tearing from within this body 
unmade by its own command.  

The veils hung limp in this father’s right hand—
torn,  blood-streaked,  
from holding too tightly  
what was neither his nor this God’s to bind.  

This father’s right hand, 
now burning in the pyre
opened, then closed,  
trying to still cradle 
the trust it had slain.