faux fur on hand;

the blessing bilked from a blind father;

grain-fed, feedlot meat

passed off as big, wild game—

no one gets the real meal deal

where faith is faster than the food.

So Isaac dies

So Esau fumes

So Rachel, unrepentant, schemes

and I, Jacob, go on the lamb

having served my Pappy goat.

I find it hard to believe

this is where belief began;

but who doesn’t?—

the earth is made of stone.

When I lie down

with a clod of rock for my pillow

I dream of escalation,

long before department stores,

and see angels going up and down

between house-wares and men’s fashion.

Because I smell of wilderness

I could steal my brother’s birthright

and lift the Promised Land.

But before I could get away

an immigrant working security

who barely speaks my language

wrestled me all night.

I still can’t tell who won:

I limp;

he kept his job;

we’re both open to the future.

Some day they’ll write a book about us.

I’ll have my grandkids read it.

There’s a sense things are still working

themselves out.

So when I wake up

I’ll go by another name

like a peeling billboard on the highway

proclaiming an old family restaurant

long since folded—

that folded years before.