A Whisper of Abraham by Catherine D. Prewitt and Austin B. Ricketts

“There’s a wooden folding table

But the leaves are in the attic

Under boxes and boxes of porcelain dolls.

I thought about their faces last night

And the faces of my family

And for some reason I was

Endeared to a pile of rocks,

To whom I do not have to speak.

For though they cry, I would

Never hear them, maybe

A whisper of Abraham.”


The sky is empty now of stars.

A box is full of heirloom jewels.


She took it upon herself to fold

The table, then folded herself

Upon the table. Whether fetal

Or failed, she’s veiled, entombed.

Petrified, “This attic womb,”


We hear her cry.

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