Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Rapture



Rapture

A FedEx truck throws wintry dust...
rumble-rolls for a neighbor's farm.

          * * *

The slapdash-lingerie girl
(way back in high school)
gives you a redwood burl
seven-inch tall, painted-blue,
oxygen-starved, face-splintered,
skinny arms-outstretched-
from-crucifixion, Jesus.
The assignment, she says,
was to make a tiki.
You both start half
pieces of Juicy Fruit gum,
then kiss real somber-sincere.
Weren't enough time, she says,
to carve out a cross... and, anyway,
like usual, teacher's short of wood.

          * * *

You don't expect to be
transported to anybody's heaven.
You don't reckon
you'll be caught up in clouds.
The lady missionaries at your door
ask what kind of dog is it
standing behind you big as a bear.
The scrawny one is pale green
as if rolled in chalk dust...
nearly translucent.  Her partner-
in-Thessalonians, long-past-heyday,
talks everlasting destruction.
The dog behind you, snout held high,
to snare every whiff of church lady
Tribulation-'n-Rapture perfume,
wags his tail hard against the wall.

          * * *

The neighbor's twelve-year-old twins
wait to ask permission
to sit your north pasture
before dawn tomorrow....
shoot-to-kill one of your coyotes.
One has a brand new,
bought-online cheap,
just-delivered, .22 rifle.
The other boy has a predator whistle.
The missionary ladies keep looking back
at the boys... as if the kids are going to
siphon gas from their Taurus wagon
filled with Jesus pamphlets...
or as if the boys mean
some other kind of monkey business.

          * * *

It is night and you can't see heaven.
There is global warming footage on TV
and you are outside in freezing mist
waiting for the Wolfhound to piss.
There is no one and nothing to kneel to.
You are staring upward toward
long forgotten, said-long-ago prayers.














No comments:

Post a Comment