August 14, 2017 · poetry

French Press

I cuddled it so tight
it begged to be let go.
I took it to the swimming hole
and dumped it in.
Days later
it washed up on shore,
and after that I wept,
curdled by long consequence
and without the love I wanted.
Then I thought
to dedicate my life to
its memory, or something like that,
but ended up shelved instead,
reading books that pushed me
still farther from my God.
Someone stepped in, primed to speak,
and I waved them down next door.
And things went on, and on,
none the wiser.

Gentle slow-drip
poetry, French-press
stories, espresso
bits of song.
A sidebar full of dishes
drying in the rack.
Why don’t you look at me?
Are you ashamed, or am I?

I whipped my back and scourged my chest,
and still the One God laughed.
I attempted suicide
but found it watching in the darkness,
coal-orange eyes
melting metal in my soul.
I asked God nicely
to go away, please thank you,
and all at once at last
the jig was up,
the shekels scattered
in sideways anger, sideways guilt
or so I saw with husks of eyes
from this shell of a body.
I wept and pleaded
and shouted at God to reinstate me,
for all tears came from God
and I was set to weasel back in.

Yet,
much to my surprise
the curtain rose on tender fields;
suns shone white and yellow in the sky,
every grass blade tickled my feet.
God stood before me and said
are you ready to give in yet?
I said oh, God, don’t make me answer
but I know it’s time.
Then a secret altar of fire
a bower of grapes and honey
grew up from stem to stern,
and I was given to see
how this came to be.

Thank you, thank you, God.

Why?
Because it feels good
to be held and hugged and loved.

O God,
my gentle God
I love you,
O God.

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