faith. a poem cycle in the form of vers libre.

*****

"This is the way we go to church,
We go to church, we go to church;
This is the way we go to church,
So early Sunday morning."

~ 1966 edition of My First Sing-A-Song Book

*****

the first rotation--
"god is the divine abortionist."

...when i was a child...

i felt as a child
i thought as a child

(i hurt as a child)

my elbows, alabaster
my smile a golden calf

and scevah knew my secrets
(did abel love his cain?)

and my knees were child-knees
scraped by unchild worlds.

-- when i was a child,
god forgot me --

...but now that i am grown...

i put childish things beside me
i hold them all more tightly
i place them around my room

my walls are scarred with ponies
the ceiling knows my demons
my bedspread is a doll house
i wear my captain crunch

now that i am grown
still i am child

and nightly as a child
i have a nightmare vision:

the children rise up against god,
and god will lose his children.

*****

the second rotation,
being a variation on a form

here is the church
here is the steeple
open your hands
see all the people

open your eyes
see all the people
here is the girl
here is the preacher

open your ears
hear the girl screaming
here is the church
here is the steeple

*****

the third rotation--
"in honor of evagrius; in contest of pope gregory; otherwise entitled acedia."

we are the dark-skinned.

we are the children of the night and
the inheritors of the earth.

we are the children of the morning and
thus eclipse the sun.

it is not that our skin has burnt,
that our pigment flows thicker,
more crudely, than yours and your oil

it is that our souls have swallowed our skins
and we do not mask our pigment

we do not blink with fists
and we do not take god lightly.

*****

the fourth rotation,
being entitled,
winter.

is it possible,
when we feel we need
ten more begotten sons,
a hundred of His daughters,
two more virgin (repentant lesbian) mothers
and hell itself,

that, in the aftermath
of the passionate expression of
our sacred freedom,

hearts,

long toyed with,
held in suspension by puppet-like fishing string,

break into a million sacreligious pieces,
yet someday mend?