Poems by Stuart Feinhor

 

 

Post-mortem:
Three Voices On the Binding of Isaac

  After that day, I did not speak to my father again.  
  After that day, I could not speak to my son again.  
  After that day, I would not speak to my husband again.  

  After that, words rang hollow in my throat.  
  After that, words felt heavy on my heart.  
  After that, words grew dark around my soul.  

  Too late my refusal to follow you, so good, so righteous, behind her back.  
  Too late my appeal to spare you, so safe in your mother's house.  
  Too late my charge to shelter him, my only son. So innocent!  

  And still, that moment is here with me every breathing second.  
  And still, that day is here with me every waking, sleeping hour.  
  And still, they are here with me always.  

  Anxious, I trusted you, before I knew my fourth-place status.  
  Scared, I cast my faith beyond the clamoring of my will.  
  Leery, I shuddered at the chill of their absence.  

  And when I called to you, father, you said I am here, but you were not.  
  And when you called to me, my son, I turned my gaze.  
  And when I called out, no one was there.  

  Your piety pushed me to the brink. How dare you!  
  My faith forced you to the verge. I had to.  
  His devotion destroyed my family. He shouldn't.  

  The smoldering embers of your eyes as you stretched your fisted arm over me are bound to me like a brand. Incredulous, I viewed the scene from a heightened remove, my soundless howl ripping me from the coiled shell of my body, and though I endured your trial, dear father, I died there on your altar.  
  The image of your trembling frame as I heaved my clenched hand above you binds me like my nightmare. Cornered, I watched unseeing from a cell so deep the chambers of my mind echoed like a cave. My loves tore me asunder, and though we survived the ordeal, my son, I lost you there on my altar.  
  The madness of their conspiracy ties me in knots of fury like a thicket. Forsaken, I stood at the doorway and stared unfocused at the empty bed of childhood dreams, and though they lived, they died there.  

  But I am older now. The sting of memory the years have dulled, but not the pain of silence. My eyes tear over the veil of yesterday, but not the frailty of tomorrow. And I miss  
  But I am old now. The tricks of time age has collapsed, but not the cost of mortal burden. My fingers gnarl around an arc of blessing, sometimes, but not the anemia of lament. And I miss  
  But I am not now. The cloud of affliction death has eclipsed, but not the shadow of rancor. My tomb seals over the ravages of my flesh, but not the ache of bereavement. And I miss  

  Don't call me by my real name; it is not a laughing matter.  
  Let me call you by a different name -- it is not a laughing matter.  
  Give yourself a new name. It is not a laughing matter.  

 

 


Actual Art