2006 revised 2026
God gives me a bed of tears—
that, and a wicked case of crabs.
Then he calls me a whore.
All around me prophets cry out:
“Come; let us return to the Lord.
For he has torn us, but he will
heal us;
He has wounded us, but he will
bandage us.
Let us press on to know the Lord.”
Frankly, I’m getting tired of this
shit.
Every time it looks like—maybe—
I’m chosen,
he picks up the tab,
lets something slip—
how it felt to make that first
poplar,
introduces me as more than a friend—
then he disappears.
No calls.
He leaves my body
stricken, desolate.
I’m sure he’s fucking someone else.
Then the accusations:
How the faithful city
has become a harlot.
He demands a confession.
And when I give it—
he calls me a liar.
Oh, he heals all right.
Rips my heart out,
then— I love you,
some grand gesture
lifts me off the couch,
perfume over rot.
Oh yeah.
Let us press on.
