Today's poem is by Helena Mesa

The Body Is Not a Stone
       

In Caravaggio's vision of the sacrifice,
the boy's chest gleams, bare as the knife's tip
and solid blade held by his father
to the neck and cheek. This morning
before the sun rises, I read
about the election. Shadows quicken
in the leafless trees, the walls brightening
from passing headlights. My beloved
asleep beside me. She turns and
murmurs as the sheet slips down
her torso, exposing the knots of spine.

As a child, I learned to fear
what I couldn't understand—a storm
with the power to illuminate
a field, or the way lightning can split
a tree in two. God blessed Abraham.
But one night the boy awakens,
braces against the oncoming touch
of his father's hand like lightning
coming toward him to set the bed aflame.

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Copyright © 2024 Helena Mesa All rights reserved
from Where Land Is Indistinguishable from Sea
Terrapin Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission