Exhibit C: Isaac
I was a youth. That could mean anything. A yearling, lion-colored, rippled hills, or black bristling my lip. When you took the knife, I became very still. Thought and wonder peeled away like burnt bark, raw underneath. A pair of eyes just seeing, and breath, and a pulse-- Inside my death the possible permanence of you like time moving backward into the time when I was half a genetic halo, half a heap of petals sleeping inside your body at the edge of God.
Ayelet Amittay is a poet and nurse practitioner in Oregon. Her poems appear in Tupelo Quarterly, Michigan Quarterly Review, Whale Road Review, and others. She has received fellowships from the Yiddish Book Center and the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. You can find her at @ayeletpoet.
