Issue Number 5
Ann Arbor Review
Miami Dade County, Florida
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Copyright (c) 2007
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I wonder if he ever spoke to his father
again? I mean, there he was playing
marbles in the dirt with his friends,
or out in the fields flying a kite
while John crows circled over the tamarinds,
and then, his father's familiar bellow,
"Isaac, get the donkey, and stop
with those fool-fool games!
And what have I told you
about playing with those little hooligans
who don't wear any sandals?" But this time
it was different. This time his father
was as cross as a camel with a burr on its tail.
They climbed the hill without a word
between them, and Isaac gathered sticks
and bramble, washed himself clean in the cool
springs the way his father had ordered him
before he left to gather stones.
And after they were both finished,
Abraham, tears in his eyes, asked Isaac
to lie down on the makeshift altar
and being a good son, he obeyed,
even when he saw the long knife
hovering over his chest and didn't blink
when his father turned away,
as if he had heard a different voice
and found a new sacrifice.
As they descended the hill,
and Isaac was kicking stones
out of the path without Abraham
complaining about ruining his new sandals,
and patting him on the head, saying,
"My boy, my only begotten son,"
trying to be his friend, again,
Isaac held Abraham's trembling hand
against his cheek, and forgave him,
yet he couldn't help but think,
"What would have happened if
the old goat hadn't been so lost?
Geoffrey Philp, Miami
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