The Voice of God
In the first grade I kneel behind a trash can heaped with crepe-paper flames. The branches shudder. I am God’s voice. I am God’s call for burnt offerings, the scent of smoking flesh. Mount Moriah unspools its summit road down the middle of the reading rug, Abraham climbs, leading God’s burnt offering by the hand. The span between the knife and Isaac’s chest is a form of closeness. The ram like an afterthought—enough testing now, let us eat. My father shudders in the small attic room of his sickness. My father stamps on the voices in his head, but they keep burning. Soon he will come downstairs. The angel will not stay his hand.
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