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Abel by Nancy Hightower

under my shadow you dabbled in the clay,
making a garden of delights out of mud pies.
we were sons of earth until that hour
when the ram’s fat smoked like Christ.
then i knew you to be the angel,
sweet boy, knew you would fly
into heaven while i clawed
my way through dust and snakes.

when we cobbled our way
through the field that late afternoon,
i drank visions of molten fruit,
wanted to see redemption in the dying red
of your smile, and so i struck forward,
eyes closed, straight to the place
where hair swept across brow.

as your head sunk down
into a bright puddle, you called
out my name only once,
but the word bore itself
straight through my chest,
a scar which marked forever
the loss of everything.


_________________________

Nancy Hightower's poetry has been published in storySouth, The New York Quarterly, Prick of the Spindle, Big Muddy: A Journal of the Mississippi River Valley and Interfictions, among others, and explores mythic narratives from a post-modern and at times, feminist perspective.


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