Back home, the megachurch
offers promises of heaven, heavy
is a weary world, just sing your
joy and hate the immigrant,
satellites rise, like a rash,
risen, bathtub redemptions
before steakhouse prayers,
all those girls, making up
stories, Jesus wept, for
God so loved America first,
wept the megachurch home.
I wish I’d become an astronomer,
could crane your neck toward
the indigo infinity, see? it’s a
woman pouring water, but
I canceled that path ninety-four
bridges ago, studied constellations
of poems in lieu of the
heavens, such is the weight
of choosing, tightening the lens,
eliminating potential, this is
my path, hold the rope and
wander in deeper, this.
Reluctant the spring, it
squanders its weeks each time,
vacillating, sunburst melody
and the silver recoil, I
cradle my cat, eyes watering
at the epiphany he has been
sick with no way to tell me,
grief and hope in a braid, hold
the rope tight, promising
something better ahead, look,
tilt your gaze toward a
poem blooming, faintly, in
the sky, can you see it?,
and you squint, then smile,
oh!, for me, perhaps, for us.
michael king 