Question mark meanders
like a curl of smoke ascending heavenward,
a supple supplicant, innocent yet insistent,
only to cool, drift sideways,
bend back under itself–
expectant and intrusive
its round, ripe belly
belies the truth
of what it holds–
then descending,
a dagger
ready
to
dig
in
deep
*
It was a simple question.
Is this your son’s coat?
But I answered an unasked question–
twisted, stained, bloody and ripped raw–
unmasking my horror and grief.
*
Years later, they stated it simply,
Joseph is still alive.
Standing among his gifts of wagons
and donkeys and food and riches
I added two words–My son–
forming a question that punctuated their tacit deceit–
a jagged gash
puncturing the tender trust between us.
by Alan Toltzis
Alan Toltzis is a strategic marketing consultant living in the Philadelphia area. One of his poems was published in Focus Midwest. He is writing a long series of poems that uses the Torah as a starting place.
