Guest Author
Aliki Barnstone - Poet, Translator, Critic, Editor, English Professor
With God in the Morning
I can’t go back to sleep,
so I weep, listening
for a rhyme.
For example, the morning dove sighs
deep in my backyard.
She doesn’t sing.
The Jehovah’s witnesses rap at my
door. They don’t ring
my bell, in whose metal the word
“peace” is cast.
How sweet are these witnesses, who
stand at my threshold
and do not pass through, who honor you
with formal dress,
expectant, smiling, their leaflets and Bibles
held to their hearts.
They apologize for waking me,
though their mission is to wake me,
and leave me
with a little flier about why to read
your word.
They promise to return, just as you
did.
They know your name is Jehovah, but
I wonder
if you are a supernova contained
in each letter of scripture
or are you my Casanova, wandering
across the globe,
entering so many souls with your flesh and
blood,
pouring your light into their mouths with a
kiss.
I make coffee because I will not
sleep.
How can it be that I am not unique?
How can it be that I am what I am
just like them, who know the answers so
well?
And now—Holy Christ!--the phone rings as if to answer
my disbelief in answers.
National Geographic offers me a free
satellite map,
a gift I can keep, if only I will
give a chance
to a DVD of their highlights through
the decades.
A map from space!
Could the charted world make me
a way to travel to you?
Would you take me
in your arms again and again
would we ascend to heavenly realms?
I tell the woman reading from her
script
that I don’t think I will accept her
gift
and my ridiculous voice cracks
at the thought that I might have told
your witnesses
the same, just as I beg now for
forgiveness
and ask, please don’t call again.
That’s okay. You’re okay, she says,
blessing me in her way.
Have a good day.
And then, dear God, I hang up the
phone.
(The Sheep Meadow Press, 2009)
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