Winter 2007 [Issue No. 11]
Listen Here, God
The next time you start sputtering tiny explosions
in my water pipes, and clanging until my ventricle flutters,
or chattering behind a wall, so mysterious
I canít know if itís you or just plumbing on the bum,
the next time you growl under a floorboard
fiercer than a caught muskrat, starting, stopping,
like youíve been wounded
and left for dead,
covered with cobwebs,
smelling of damp dirt and coffiny airó
next time you rush the wrath of you through my drainage,
your pockets filled with monkey-wrenches loosening traps,
and water hammers pounding my head,
you could try speaking plainly, you bossy plaguey thing.
Goodmorning, a simple human wish, will doó
if you canít say straight out How are you? like a human, donít
hide in my pipes, grinding like a goatís digestion.
What are you insisting about anyway?
All that repeating, repeating,
tapping, echoing through my whole system.
I think of those mystics who made Godís noises
when they prayed, their constant
rumble, their incantations, climbing up.
What is it you want of me?
to wake and beóbe what? glad?
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