By Merle Feld
I stood there shoulder to shoulder with the men
when they hacked a piece off your little thing -
could I really sit in the room next door
and let my fantasies run wild when I heard you cry?
And yet, at the crucial moment, I wasn't watching.
I was staring off into space at some invisible focal point.
The same one I'd stared at through hours of labor?
Maybe.
Maybe the same one Sarah stared at
when Abraham took her baby up to the mountain.
I'm not angry, but you know,
you're a little weird, you male Jewish God.
What do you need with all those foreskins, anyway?
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