The War Candle
We grew tired
of priests and monks,
of Allahs and Buddhas and Christs,
so we ate them from a bowl,
like cereal we ate them.
We grew tired
of our parents,
so we washed them
from our face and hands,
washed them from our bodies
like cheap, venial sins.
We breathed in and found ourselves.
We breathed out, extinguishing the war candle.
Compline
There is nothing left to pray
and we are alone with the silence,
ourselves, our bellies
filled with regret and war.
Our minds filled with war,
but no more sadness, only
nothing left to say
to a god or one another.
The dogs still bark.
The cats still stray their way
into unkempt temples,
pissing in dark corners,
having kittens under altars.
The wind still blows.
The sun scorches our heads.
Everything stays the same but us.
We wander within ourselves
with nowhere else to go.
Without Harpoon
Look up.
The constellation
of our galaxy.
Do you see it?
Forget the little ones.
The animals.
The twins.
Even the archer.
We are out of time.
Forget them all.
And when the moon rises
think of it as an old whale,
a leviathan swimming safely
within dark air.
Think of yourself
without a harpoon.
Messiah Overboard
Mustard seeds and atom bombs
move mountains.
Certainty.
Human shadows left behind
on concrete shrouds.
I have faith in weeds,
and that you are drowning in sparrows.
Jesus, hang on to the plank
in my blue left eye, float
for your life, tread
for everything
you once believed.
As Though I Have No Hands
The country I live in
no longer exists.
The god I search for
is somewhere
angry in my belly.
Now, countless sparrows
fall into dust.
And I have to whisper.
As though I have no hands.
Any song or new land
within myself
must leave as unnoticeable
as breath in winter
and somehow find you,
your heart.
I am afraid
I will hit the ground
and leave the worm alive,
wriggling within me,
to crawl out only
when my stomach grows cold,
through my cracked, pale beak.
I am afraid
we will have
never existed.