Revision
I was a gray mouse frozen
beneath the shadow of an owl.
A rock, a leaf, a small tremor,
empty as the moonless sky.
Prayers return to mock
this birth--a barbed hook
you pull to hurt, entrap
the bitter with the sweet.
Her laughter wasn’t for you.
Were we responsible
for your killing ground,
your wounded pride?
The accusation stains
each yellowed dawn--
dew mixed with sulfur,
that rotten stench,
the grass dust, ash-soaked
when the mountains fell
to consume the valley
Moriah looms:
to kill my laughter,
teach my son—
that even a loving Father—
can wield a knife.
There is no escape from you.
Original
I was a gray mouse frozen
beneath the shadow of an owl.
A rock, a leaf, a small tremor,
empty as the moonless sky.
Prayers mock this birth
announcement. The barbed hook
you pull to hurt, entrap
the bitter with the sweet.
Her laughter wasn’t for you.
Were we responsible
for your killing ground,
your wounded pride?
The accusation stains
each yellowed dawn--
dew mixed with sulfur,
that rotten stench,
the grass dust, ash-soaked
when the mountains fell
to consume the valley
Moriah looms:
to kill my laughter,
teach my son—
that even a loving Father—
can wield a knife.
There is no escape from you.
I was a gray mouse frozen
beneath the shadow of an owl.
A rock, a leaf, a small tremor,
empty as the moonless sky.
Prayers return to mock
this birth--a barbed hook
you pull to hurt, entrap
the bitter with the sweet.
Her laughter wasn’t for you.
Were we responsible
for your killing ground,
your wounded pride?
The accusation stains
each yellowed dawn--
dew mixed with sulfur,
that rotten stench,
the grass dust, ash-soaked
when the mountains fell
to consume the valley
Moriah looms:
to kill my laughter,
teach my son—
that even a loving Father—
can wield a knife.
There is no escape from you.
Original
I was a gray mouse frozen
beneath the shadow of an owl.
A rock, a leaf, a small tremor,
empty as the moonless sky.
Prayers mock this birth
announcement. The barbed hook
you pull to hurt, entrap
the bitter with the sweet.
Her laughter wasn’t for you.
Were we responsible
for your killing ground,
your wounded pride?
The accusation stains
each yellowed dawn--
dew mixed with sulfur,
that rotten stench,
the grass dust, ash-soaked
when the mountains fell
to consume the valley
Moriah looms:
to kill my laughter,
teach my son—
that even a loving Father—
can wield a knife.
There is no escape from you.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
