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.