Sober Child

How many times had he dashed past me? 
He’d run and run, climb onto the thick 
stone walls, stretch his arms into the ribs 
of morning light, shake his head, 
then jump down into a steady stride, 
spinning his feet until exhaustion 
or the layered light near the end 
of day. He coughed some, as if 
he didn’t know what to say, but got after 
the mules so they would harrow the earth, 
his eyebrows raised in the slight vault 
of wonder. For his father, he first tossed 
jasper, then hauled buckets of dross, 
the dregs of metal dusting his arms 
and embedding in his fingertips. For his mother,
he’d slit and hang a young ram, seethe 
its caul and kidneys, prepare the hocks 
just for himself. He must have been close 
to his tenth year when I caught him carrying 
unleavened bread across a field. He sensed
somehow that burdens would hunt him down. 
And he knew I’d watched him hearken 
in the synagogue, its hard seats and elegant trim,
cherubic gilt, how it had always been, 
how it shall be, edged in his voice down 
to his knuckles, in his hands and back up 
out of his mouth after he passes through the shaft
of night’s inevitable plea, after he 
understands the scorn for plain words and shadows
when he will soldier between heaps of the dead 
for one more hoist of flag and sword 
and will keep advancing in the open road 
while the armies shriek at his calves and heels 
like a pack of dogs, jousting and feral, 
jaws, snouts, and teeth slitting skin; how I 
believed him when he said he could bank 
a fire during the coldest night in winter, 
then he pointed to the stars and affirmed 
the zeal in gold plates, agreed to the record 
keeping charge, and ran on.