Oct/Nov 2001 Poetry Special Feature


by Taylor Graham

Art by Bob Dornborg



He's waited by the dripping halves
of carcass till blood splatters
down the sky's spine and pools
at the west horizon. The hills
rise against midnight, hazel-dun
under a half-sliced moon.
If there are stars, he can't see
them for the smoke swirling
behind his eyes.

The pupils watching him (his only
son) are pinpoints of panic.
A breeze finds the back of his neck;
but no, it's just his own
chill wonder: God
can do anything He dooms
or asks or promises.

Still, Isaac breathes.
A father's fist becomes nothing
but its grip on axe.
The only light's the one that burns
this altar. All night
it flickers a shadow's doubt.


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