Poem: "The Sign"

The Sign

we may give praise to the wrong God

and remember only what illuminates

—Laksmi Pamuntjak, “A Traveler’s Tale”

The sky was clear, as it had been clear for months

despite our prayers for rain. The younger priests

carried the one-year-old calf up the mountain, lifted

by faith, for how could our master Baal fail us?

We stacked the rocks we found into an altar

and dug a trench round it to catch the blood.

The calf, white as milk and smooth, was quickly

tied down with the thin ropes Jeroboam brought.

A circle round the altar, far enough not to be singed,

we prayed in turn like passing a stone, we prayed

in unison. We tore our clothes, we scratched our faces,

we wept for a sign from heaven, wept into each other.

When the fire came, my back burned. I knew then,

without turning round, an age was passing, passing.