Do not tell me to heal. I want no poems
that call the wild geese home, or command me,
behold the winter sunset, or, consider
the fox frozen in river-ice. I want no poems
that tell me how to mend, or how to mourn
all the world’s little losses, and little gifts,
I know what we are giving up. Do not tell me,
make peace and grieve. The lifespan of anger is long
in the wild, and if left alone, it will become
a living relic, rooted and sightless in the deep.
If left alone, its small, dark life will outlast by far
this brief season. Is that not reason enough
to let it live?
“GOD HATES —” (A sonnet)
If I believed in God, I would use Him
The way He has been used against me.
Those who have condemned me, I would condemn
From my high pulpit, and rain hellfire down
On what I deem hypocrisy. If I had faith,
I would wield it like a flail, barbed-wire tails,
A velvet grip, soft only to the hand
That holds it. This is all to say, I know
I am no better than my enemies.
I know the human heart to be a sponge—
When squeezed, it oozes whatever substance
It has been soaked in. If mine believed, I would
Seep the same pap as I’ve been fed, I would
Suck up this lake of poison and call it Love.