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Winter 2007 [Issue No. 11]

POETRY


 

Listen Here, God

Geri Radacsi

 

 

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.

Good morning, 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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