O, beginning, daughters of the earth await the sons of heaven, and
They all practice trigger-happiness and chicken scratch.
They practice duration and meltdown.
They primp in your glass.
You think that’s funny?
It’s getting really cold in here.
Who makes the introductions if not you?
Who initiates the
bliss, I ask?
Have I not left footprints in hell?
remain a false apology.
All better now?
You gave me a
body so I could learn to live without it, right?
This poem is just a
way of minding my own business.
It flourishes in your darkness.
This poem is not what you think.
It’s what thinks you.
It thinks the
only hope we have, bombarding us with zeros, sending us our mail-order teeth.
Initiate the bliss, O, ending.
Take whatever you
want, and don’t forget to close the door.
collected in Before the door of God : an anthology of devotional poetry / Hopler, Jay ed.; Johnson, Kimberly ed. p.353