I wonder where you lay your
head
these days. I hear your
voice when I’m angry
and that saddens us all.
I like to think my eyes are
kinder
but they may only be the
same icy blue.
My hair, too, is silver.
I hope there is some small
wisdom
in my speech, even when I
doubt.
I suppose I will always be
your son.
In the midst of your absence
I am often
lost. Still, I wish to hear
you say
I’m proud of you as you lay your hand
upon my head, heavy and calloused.
There are gifts and there
are burdens.
My hands grow tired from
carrying them.
I would even wish to be
Isaac
to your Abraham—
let me carry the wood.
Let me be bound as I am
already bound,
let me wait for the rustling
of leaves as they fall from
branches;
let
there be a ram.
