No wonder. We advance up that mountain
question or alarm.
Our father hid his knife
next to his nakedness. Pulled Isaac up
the slaughter slope.
He sang praise. Pledged allegiance.
He walked by sound,
that one voice: I will make you
great again. Yes, great. Again.
No wonder we forget. We are the young
Mesomorph of sound mind and Olympic legs.
No wonder we forget
we can get away
or, all the better, overcome.
Our father is the sheep
on the mountain. Not us. Nor the ram
in the thistle. Our father grinded the knives.
Our father bleated, loud. With bladed fists
raised: whatever you say whatever
you say whatever.
Ciona D. Rouse is a poet, living in Nashville, Tenn. She curates many poetry experiences and reading series in the city. Her poetry is featured or forthcoming on WPLN Nashville Public Radio, Nashville Public Television, and Gabby Journal.