I am Abraham


            After these things God tested Abraham.
            God said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.”
            God said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love,
            and go to the land of Moriah,
            and offer him there as a burnt offering
            on one of the mountains that I shall show you.”
            So Abraham went…

                           —Genesis 22.1-3

Spun from the one web of God,
mote of God’s love I am,
one with the spiraling galaxies
and all their wonders, each of their lovelies.
They are my wholeness,
the rest of me, without whom I am not.
Each is my grandmother, my son, my self.

And I confess: I recoil.
I want none of them, their otherness,
I who climb my private mountain
at the bidding of my singularity,
this voice in its shell casing on my back—
and all the while my beloved son asking his damned questions.

I protect myself.
I use Sarai as a shield:
she my be raped, but I am safe.
I cast out Hagar, so I don’t live with my guilt.
I sacrifice Isaac, that I may be favored.
I am addicted to my security,
split against myself.

I banish these shadows
that I may have no Otherness—
the fragile, the black, the broken, the strange,
I sacrifice them. It is my god’s will.
To the god of my domination I offer up
their shot bodies, their diminished souls,
their food deserts and racial profiles.
I give my children poison to breathe and ruin their earth.
I send them to war. I teach them my hate.
The headlines are my son, asking his questions.
I kill them and escape.
I refuse to claim them, though they are mine,
they are mine, they are me.

Holy One, let your angel stop my killing,
and sacrifice my ego-ram, caught in the bushes.
Heal me, forgive me, open my eyes.
Give me back the child of me,
my future, my hope, my self.
Give me back my universe, the rest of me.
Stop my killing. Let me let live.
Let me let live.

                           —June 28, 2017