WAGblog

New Poem

I had a chaplain friend in the hospital who said that saying Fuck God was at least a relationship, and a meaningful one. Hope this doesn't overly offend anyone. But read the poem and you'll see how I mean it.

BURNING BRIDGES
By Pamela Spiro Wagner

"Fuck God," you say, the worst thing
you can think of, and "Jesus F. Christ!"
when everyone knows what blasphemy
the F� stands for. And because the lightning bolt
doesn�t strike you down as you�ve been
promised, you decide he, or she, if God,
doesn�t really cut it in the omnipotence
department since you�d smack anyone else
who said such a thing, meaning
you, yet God doesn�t even send a thunderclap
or an ominous massing of clouds
off to the northeast just to remind you
Who�s Who.
So now you stand sheepishly
in church between the pews while others do
the Stations you�ve completely forgotten, mumbling
the Lord�s Prayer which is all you have not,
and pray no one you knew as an atheist
sees you with your head in a hymnal
on your knees before the God you swore
off as a militant teen and are ashamed
to be seen going back to just for succor
in a time when your son�s failing high school
and your feckless husband ran off with
Randy, the electrician, and all your friends
nod at you in the street but won�t stop
to speak except to explain prior engagements
like the housefire they�re running
towards or from, or the big C
they had an MRI for with ambiguous results.
But even death won�t shake them
from the strenuousness of their disbelief.
They�re convinced God is for children and idiots
with substandard IQ�s or people who need
their heads examined.
So in church, kneeling
because others are kneeling, you examine
your head for flaws and other shit-for-brains
when through the open door tumbles
a small bird, a dove you think, and it lands
on your shoulder, in its beak an olive twig,
halo �round its head, and in its eyes
a look of love you almost recognize.