I’m tired of agreeing with yesmakers
who make only one kind of rain. Like Oprah.
Suffer a million more of your afflictions?
Sure. A single false
promise or pleasure more hurts more,
deadens to a thousand joys,
feeds new kinds of bitter roots.
But thank you for the gettings soaked,
and the way your whispering is. Even when cryptic.
Who else can boast of a husband as I have, Lord? Who else can say of their God, He holds the universe with his left hand, and the brokenhearted with his right? The best I’ve heard of men is that they have a fleeting passion for and a lasting self-control around their wives, and of gods that they draw hearts into imaginary joys and shifting sand beaches with paper waves. But you love fiercely and forever, jealously, to the point of sweating blood and volunteering to be betrayed and mocked and hung up like meat. You, the maker of the ocean and the moon that turns the tides and the sun that warms the earth and the sea within it and gives it life. Who am I to be called “your loved one”? I feel your hands on my face.