Where is Able, Your Brother?

By Brooks Lampe
You and I, one blood.

God and I were chatting when (you had forgotten to
put on the emergency brake) God broke off our
conversation and ran to your red car, rolling toward the
road. He put his hands on the hood and pushed-just in
time.

I always watched out for you. but that time
if God hadn't been there, there could've been blood.
We wedged a stone under the tire, shook hands
and waited to tell you that you had forgotten
again. When you got back you blushed red
to find out that your car had been saved by God.

But then you drove off, said goodbye to God and went
to the farm-always working overtime. He and I
watched the animals and the big red sunset. We
huddled together to warm our blood against the vast
evening sky. I had forgotten that I existed that night-
God and I holding hands.

Where were you, O brother? Washing your hands?
Helping Aunt Martha cook supper for God?
All your fussing and cooking...You had forgotten
that in the car that one time
He said He likes meat. Meat has blood.
Blood is red.

Mother's womb was red, and our hearts beat red: thus
we enter and pass through life. Our hands squeeze and
flex with the pulses of flowing blood. It's only right we
give something back to God.

He gives us everything: life, time,
even the memories we have forgotten.

I must admit, I too had forgotten
how red
your face was that last time,
your angry eyes and hands
were raised toward God,
but He did not hear-it was not blood.

And then my red was on your hands.
I had forgotten that (O God!)
this was the first time you had shed blood