The Sheep

No wonder. We advance up that mountain

without pause,

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.

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