JOHN GREY

Sunday at the Abrahams
       

First, my father placed me on the altar
then he drew back his knife,
high above his head,
was poised to plunge it deep into my heart.

That’s when the angel intervened.
Or maybe it was my mother.
She needed me to help set the table,
suggested he sacrifice a goat instead.

We had no goat.
Just a dog.
A tiny Pomeranian.
And, once he got wind of the ritual,
the little guy flew through the door-flap
and out into the backyard.

I suggested my little brother
but my parents thought that was
too much to ask
of someone who was still teething.

That’s when the angel intervened again.
Or maybe it was the telephone.
My mother answered.
Her cousin, Deborah had finally succumbed
to cancer.

My father offered her up as a substitute
and then we all sat down to Sunday dinner.

Back to Top
Review Home