By Daniel Edward Moore
Dreaming Of Sacrifice Gone
The gentle shepherd with apocalyptic rants wearing eighty six years
of warfare and wonder is the incarnation of pure contradiction,
a contemplative Father with biblical ink flowing through veins
into hands that drove tractors, hands that turned fields into green congregations
that worshipped the maker of days. From the field a lamb was taken.
Slain without consent. Something innocent, unlike me, paid for the stripes
of barbwire shadows streaking my soul like a bad referee
who failed to blow the silver alarm as creation fell to its knees.
As in days of old, when the cold steel wings of Air Force bombers
sprouted from a farm boy’s back, carving the land of Viet Nam into
nothing that looked like Ohio, nothing that dare looked up into Heaven
and sang the psalms of lambs. If every son is a Father’s lamb waiting
for Abraham’s knife, may morning find me turning away from tears dripping
off the blade. May evening find me sleeping on stone dreaming of sacrifice gone.