If I could stick an arrow into God,
spilled free from bow or empowered gray
with spire, run whooping raw in thunder,
dab with relish those puddles of the kill,
then I would never need
to be any better than I am.
Fair shot, he’d say, but you’ve
killed a quarry you cannot dress.
I will take with me his ribs,
and raise buttresses. Hew the pleura
to frame my vault. Relieve the Pantocrator
in soft minuscules of stain.
For my sake, he’d say, I hope
you’re kidding. For my sake,
I hope I am too.
Goodnight, Taj Mahal by Andre Peltier
Deep below earth, clay and sand, deep below roots and aquifers, it lies in wait. Like that silent coyote stalking her white-tailed deer through the brush, it waits patiently and
April 30, 2023
