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

many

Moses

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

adoration

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