Thursday, March 12, 2015

bronzed belief
Harvey S. Mozolak

the sandals of our souls are sore
oh God
Hor was high, unbreathable
rocky and ripped our soles
and now the wild places
vultures, their wings
curtain our walk with curses
scrubby brown branches
and saw-edged bitter green stalks
grow only once in a while
can you see Moses
our hands have scabs from the sand
and thorns
our children scream when we touch them
and our wives shrink from our embrace
we drink our own sweat
and taste our weak tears
the what-is-this sticky stuff
that is to pass for bread
is detestable meal
too bony to roast
the bird broth
is thin and acrid
with nothing to float in it
except our fear
of jackal and lion
and the slithering stems of poison
we have begun to see
bitten the burning blackens the eyes
coppers the flesh
hot, fevered
the people die
so many
oh God hear him
unfang our failure
the curling fury of our ingratitude
wrapped about ourselves
Moses stripped a pole
of fruit and foliage
and coiled about it
bronze beaten to englory
angels’ antidotal food
our arms and hands like new limbs
and wings of perching seraphim
begged and held
to hope
God’s stake in the world
twisting a tourniquet of love
taking his only
breath and light
our venom
envelops and stops
the heart of heaven
so in its holy halt
we may live again
to trust
unseen the ending
and that beating

beyond belief

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