prayer long after midnight that turns to anger
Lord,
I am afraid of your blastiomas, your ear-cups burned
to the sockets no reconstructive surgery can ease,
the fact that you imagined twisting bone
shot molars,
creaturely infestation and how it would feel,
and then chose to summon these things.
I fear the way you handle Now,
perpetual gift that, being touched
is removed, so that every seed
blossoms only as loss.
The finest prayer
is accusation. Mantic visions
mouthed in a dry climate,
your own begotten
on his afternoon’s cross is in no way sufficient
to one slide of muck and bloody rain,
one strain grown resistant,
one apartment ceiling
collapsed above the crib.
What fathomless abortion of Deity
has out of his capacity fashioned grief?
Sir,
how dare you be and not
be here—
among us huddled under mylar sheets,
eating with your fingers out of yellow U. N. buckets
lice-busy grain
and unsafe water?