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Psalm XYZ

Psalm XYZ

A Psalm from Below

 


I.

God, forgive me.
A little skin cancer,
a little more celibacy,
and I’m ready to turn back:

No more Africa till x, y, and z.

Another tropical disease and I want to die.
I hope for rapture, or heaven, 
or at least, the end
of systematic theology.

This life, this living from below,
this gaze upward
is not what I had hoped for. 

Forgive me.

 

II.

My only visitor today:
a cat with a white chest and scraggle tail. 
He sleeps in my bathtub or on my leg
if I sit still long enough. 
Turns out the back door
is not for a boyfriend
and the porch is for Jesus. 

 


III.

I am content and restless.

My skin keeps me in, but I travel, run, 
threaten to come undone.

 

IV.

Someone—fifty years ago?—planted a fuchsia
that trails up a tree, seeking a sky the same as me.

Did the planter consider such a waste of money?

 

V.

We are all renters.

We rent the earth.
We rent our homes.
We rend our hearts,
not our garments.

We take, we rape, 
we return to earth—
we are dust, 
bowed down.

We bother, we annoy, 
we mistake our lives for more than they are—
the magnification of a Creator
beyond the haze of stars.

 

 

 

 

Visual Artist: Asia Tomeny

The Silence of Adam

The Silence of Adam