I wonder if he
struggled, strained at the cord,
stared
disbelievingly at the gathered branches,
knew his
father’s mind at all.
Did he see the
angel through the panic in his eyes,
hear its voice
above the clamor of his pulse?
And after
falling from the stones,
the sacrifice
stumbling and clouded with rage,
did he kneel
before the burning ram?
Breathless, I
bolt at the howling of a dog,
my arms
straining at cord made tighter by waking.
The wings
unfurled in a dream close and disappear
into shadows
scratching on the wall,
branches
gathered at the windowpane.
I stumble out of
bed to pull the shade,
curse the
howling of a dog,
and wonder if I
know my Father’s mind at all?
~William Hammett
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