I'm making supper for my children, knife
dancing on wood, beneath these swinging pots,
as water runs, remembering still life
once caught on Brady's tinted plate: gunshots
regale a leafless maple bent with spies,
hanged, hideous in symmetry, still sacks
of men, young boys in mufti caught in lies,
the wit of Solomon usurped by claques,
bestowed on writhing forms, His image each,
but warped : reward, revenge, stupidity --
the meat in people howls within God's reach.
A car backfires, subdues the reverie.
My sons arrive, grab glinting edges, race
to rend this offering; I mumble grace.