Conversations

The man sat, in the evening, in his room
and his wife was sewing
outside the air was still, and heavy with familiar sounds
He knew this evening light
This place had been his home since before birth
After his death he supposed his own son's sons
would sit listening to sounds , content, as he did now
Peace like thick liquor trickled through his bones
Somebody stirred
The man got up and walked to his door
He stands black blocking out the faded day
He stands quite still and listens
He sees no houses, only great plains and emptinesses
He stands

Turning, he watches his wife wrapped in her quietness
we have to go, he thinks, but I cannot tell her why or where.
He has known moments like this before
woven into his contentment
His wife would say merely: it is the time of year;
your desire to be different from your brothers.
He would answer, no, no, it is myself calling to myself
I have to go
It is myself calling through all my days
Abram, Abram,
And I have to answer yes.

And he thought, now I am going to die
Already the blood is cold in my bones
My hands are open to grasp death
I am bound and cannot run or fly
Though I am very young my skin has shrivelled
My flesh contracts, I am terribly afraid

Now I am going into strange and silent places
beyond everything I know.
Help me father
No-one answers.

Standing in the desert
thirsty and pained by loneliness
He sees burning through the light
the glare of his own past and people
He calls out
You, you, who push me and pull me on
Tell me your name.