Abraham and Isaac
You tried to take
my red metals with your wolf jaw tongs
to forge a body never to be flame-licked again
but I reached out and held you
by the throat, pressed
my ear to your chest that meadow
startled with magpies.
You are not the first man
who tried to make my body a smoke.
But here I am
to silver the air and surround you
like a sky vast enough
to take your embers into itself;
I’ve been made to carry your fires.
Copyright © 2017 by Thomas Dooley. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 23, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.
“In the struggle to stay connected to his father, a son might wonder what kind of sacrifice is needed to jettison the pain (of rejection, of disapproval, of dislocation) in order to say, with honesty and generosity, ‘Here I am, Dad.’ When we collide with our parents’ limitations and still manage to enjoy connection, we feel vast.”
—Thomas Dooley
Thomas Dooley
Thomas Dooley is the author of Trespass (Harper Perennial, 2014). He is artistic director of Emotive Fruition, a theater collective of actors and poets in New York. He lives in Brooklyn.