“Maybe Jesus did shrooms,” I said the first time. I was so high I cried
thinking about our doomed patch of earth, the sinking sun
the workers making their way home from a day at the gold mines.
It’s been a while since I last saw the sun
only skyscrapers, smog and
unattainable sky.
I wonder if Jesus had space for regret at 33. How true was the truth
that salvation was at hand or multiplying bread
was just a metaphor for being a really good wedding guest.
Maybe what I need is 40 days and a desert,
a woman who reminds me of my mother. The olive trees in Palestine
keep burning. Villages wiped out by landslides. A 5-year-old orphan tells the field surgeon that she’d rather die. Lord,
you know how long I’ve wanted a miracle.
I blaze bush after bush for an epiphany. I am
not who I want to be yet. Anoint me in smoke,
expensive perfume, and agony. Let this pass over
Quickly. Prepare me
for transformation. If I can’t be whole
then I’d rather be new
in a quiet country, with public parks
and a whole lot of nothing.
Would I hear you then?
Are you listening?
Are you there?
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