“I see you like our mountains.” And can I say
I do who dream of olive trees toughened
By the angry winds of Zion, a thorn-
Entangled memory of Isaac who
On patient knees before the stone awaits
His father’s knife, but gets the broad-armed angel
Thrusting him to life?
“Your mountains, sir?” I stare. Liking
Mountains was a benediction on
The earth, the hardening of lava and
The twist and gush of rivers, to those who
Agilely upon their fathers’ bones
Would lie and hear the sound of sons
Treading on their own.
“Yes, I like them very much.” And who
Are we to quibble over heritage — I,
The testy newcomer, and he, old salesman
Of a lifting view? For, even to exchange our eyes,
No angel ever would arrive to recompense
His stony adoration, and no sweet son
Bring my bones alive.
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