There are so many misconceptions
about
what happened on the mountain.
So
many.
The
specter, a diabolical heat shimmer,
pushed
and rolled me up the incline,
made
my hands move like those of a puppet
to
build the craggy stone altar.
It
placed a knife in my hand,
curled
my fingers and raised my arm
but
I’d had quite enough and fought back.
I
cursed and spat at this shadow of light,
this
messenger of so-called meaning,
until
it fell back, a twisting dust devil
racing
into the desert from which it came.
I
cut the cords, dropped the knife.
Isaac
rose from the rocks and was free.
We
stumbled down the mountain,
and
I never looked back.
I
still converse with grass, rivers, and trees,
but
I no longer speak to the sky.
If
it should happen to send words my way,
I do not listen, do not try
to
translate messages into my native tongue.
It
may converse with the dung for all I care.
It’s
song will go unsung.
There
will be no more sacrifices
to
the how and the where and the when,
nor
will I give up my allegiance to why.
~William Hammett
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