How fortunate it is to live in the stomach
of a beast opposed to the mouth -
and how luckier still it is
to be the hunter watching from afar.
We bake bread, we drink wine, we say grace;
you ask me to pick a side in a war I’m not in.
We eat bread, we get drunk, we beg God:
let us kiss an angel even if it kills us;
let us kiss an angel because it will kill us.
But God has burning children to ignore and
how fortunate it is to live in the smoke
of a fire opposed to the flame -
and how luckier still it is
to be the furnace.
You take me to church on a Tuesday -
we sit on the steps smoking cigarettes.
I ask you if compliance makes us guilty and
you say we are all guilty in the eyes of the lord.
God won’t let me kiss an angel but
the smoke from our cigarettes form a halo so
I kiss you instead.
Your mother would consider this sin, but
if we are guilty already, let me be the lamb
opposed to the slaughterer.
We bake bread, we drink wine, we say grace;
the side of the war has already been chosen for us.
We eat bread, we get drunk, we curse God:
for not stopping the fires we set ourselves,
for not stopping ourselves from setting fires.
You stop buying cigarettes because of the war.
The fires outside make it hard to smoke and
maybe it wasn’t a halo but God signing our guilt.
When your mom dies, you stop going to church.
When your mom dies, I beg God:
on my hands and knees, I beg for a small mercy.
But God has larger mercies to refuse and
how fortunate it is to kiss an angel at seventy
rather than a fire at seven -
and how luckier still it is
to not touch death at all.
The war outside continues on.
The church is gone and I’m still on my knees.