Moriah

The name given to a mountainous region in the Book of Genesis, where the binding of Isaac by
Abraham is said to have taken place

For your mother

She walked as if pushed from behind,
red corduroys faded to orange,
yellow ski jacket,
all of her in my mind soft, even
the bones of her elbows sleeved in down
exiting the 7-11
following a State Trooper
to your grandmother’s Ford,
where you watched from a car sear
impatient for that softness.

Their footsteps crunched in the snow
just beneath the radio
until the door opened,
her gym class Keds
dirty in the slush
beside and behind his lug soled boots
while he leaned into the car,
his breath pushing ahead
like another face, fat and round
asking “Are you OK?”
And at your nod,
starch and sweat lingering,
(which from then on will be the smell of cold)
turned to say, not ask,
shawled in curling exhaust,
“What kind of mother…”

A statement you breathed
back at her, on the way home restless
with validation,
her auburn hair shaking below
a pilled knit cap as she drove crying,
remembering the threat;
Child Protective Services,
as if there were such a thing,
while you tongued your adult teeth,
over large in your mouth,
like the new taste of her blood
not quite good
that you acquired considering
the ways you had been slighted and would be,
righteousness running
like a dog beside the car.

A scene I composed
forty years ago
as my mother told me the story
and my heart ached for myself
not yet taken to Moriah
but knowing it was a matter of time
as she gushed about you,
the sweet rope and knife
in the back of your grandmother’s car.