Jesus at Ten
My father is a carpenter, a simple man,
my mother a good woman with a clear idea
of who she is, but there is something unsaid
between them, something unfinished.
A boy I know, a little older, John is his name,
can see the future, he does it for a shekel. He says
I'll have joys and sorrow, as many doubters
as followers, have sacrifices to make.
I tell this to my father who pauses at his bench,
his mouth bristling with nails of his own design.
He nods his head, says nothing. I have the feeling
sacrifice is something he knows of.