My back warms
against a screened
in fire. I think of my wayward
distance between You and I.
How many days I’ve disregarded
Your promise: Peace I leave with
you, My child.
How I do not see this amongst
warring trenches between my heart
and mind. One says, be still & know.
The other screams, no, no, no you
must do something worthy to make
those seeds underfoot grow. Water
and sunlight, drink or warmth, they
need you. Don’t wait for Jesus’ time
frame to make those Magnolias
blossom come next spring. Smell
the sweet perfume now, now, now.
November will bring silent wither,
freezing goodness beneath chilled
soil. You better hurry along now
before all your dreams burn out,
and you die along with the
catchphrase people couldn’t help
branding you: she couldn’t handle
divine approval. Such a fool.
I can’t break my mind’s thought
train, no doubt conducted
by the serpent. I know he has no
hands, not to mention You’ve
crushed his scaled body underfoot.
He somehow keeps pulling
the whistle, warning the pulsing beat
You spoke into the empty womb.
Bleak with the question: when shall
I came three days past
mid April bloom, unaware the blood
darker than these orange flames,
meant a well wish You would carry
my lame to boast Your never end.