the god of my father

when we were children, all
of us were ill one sunday.
you played at priesthood,
refusing to let the ceremony
wither in our lives a single
week. you handed the book
to me to read. you blessed
a glass goblet held trembling
in both hands, tore off wonder
bread and called it eucharist.

what do you do now when only
one is gathered in his name?
stone tiles bite at your knees.
the sun sears your eyes there
in the mountains, where man
has always sacrificed—closer
to god. you become abraham,
doubting if you have sacrificed
too much, everything. unsure
why no angel appeared, no
struggling ram lay in the bush.

C.C. Apap grew up in the kind of Detroit suburb that had a functioning farm just over the back fence. Now a special lecturer at Oakland University, his poetry has been featured or is forthcoming in Dunes Review, Genuine Gold, Eunoia Review, Belt Magazine, Alba, The Thimble Literary Magazine, and The Hooghly Review.