Set two, two plates instead of three: you will
not be returning. In your small shoes,
your small coat with the smaller buttons,
you have never looked so full of faith,
mouthing the words Moriah, mother. Mother. I will
not call you child but sacrifice, sacrament,
animal. When you hug me, my heart
conks out: stunning in non-ritual slaughter,
blood slick like a botched birth.

This is my own
faith at its finest: bestial benediction,
my knees rubbed red, filthy from so much kneeling.
And my hair: a scorching halo. Abraham tells me
this test is God’s gift. I etch every answer
‘til the paper splits like a lip:
a.) I have never been more certain
b.) I have never been more certain
c.) I have never been more certain