I woke up stale
on the chaise lounge,
yesterday still on me.
A shower,
enough hope
to dress,
to caffeinate
into numbness.
Then—
Section 47.
Urgent safeguarding.
Attend with police.
Child at risk.
Isaac, five,
led by his father
up a high ridge,
humming,
a knife loose
in his hand.
At the top he said,
softly,
it’s for our loving saviour.
That calm—
so practiced
it erased
every alarm.
I felt the old story
rise in me:
a father,
a knife,
love as proof.
He held it above the boy.
No angel.
No ram.
Only wind.
I wrote the report:
attempted harm
by Abraham
to his son.
Later, in supervised contact,
the boy asked:
What would you do
if God
told you to?
I recorded his words.
In the corner,
Isaac chewed
his sleeve.