God Looks After You (2016)/God Abandons Us (2021)

I wrote the first one as a depiction of my loneliness and my projected future when I was 20. As I approach my 27th birthday, I realized how much I no longer relate to the original piece and how my own values and focus have shifted. I chose to rewrite the poem, but I feel they really serve each other as foils.

God Looks After You

I lie awake soaked in my blood,

your blood? her blood? his?

It doesn’t matter anymore.

Your tears are Nostradamus when I’m wrapped in your Armageddon

-your Dutch tulip field where purity lies weeping, drinking at the Sun’s boiled teat.

I might still be asleep.

Sleeping for the chance to split my skin

and set my body ajar

like the wilting heart

I keep in a vase

watching it pump fire from chimney to throat.

I am merely raw.

God should have left me aflame.

A box of matches and some kerosene.

Ashes to ashes, will I rekindle like a phoenix?

With my luck, I’d be reborn ceaselessly into the same hollow form:

same tired eyes,

same shallow skin,

same capricious mind.

My first birth challenged God.

I’m sure I made Him laugh—

bespectacled, tertiary, inadvertent…

another notch on the door frame.

another endless mouth to feed.

Mama should have murdered this that murders me.

But I skipped by with a fortune in my pocket,

“God looks after you especially.”

Too young to see the irony

of a life conceived Easter Monday

and begun the day after Christmas.

My first death will come on Holy Saturday

and I will never be holier.

Though my soul is growing weak.

It has seen too much.

First life? Not even close.

First death? No such luck.

I’ve been here a million times.

I’ll be here a million more.

Aimless, chastised, forging the documents on some off-shore lover that I cannot possess.

I was a capitalist last time.

Before that, a queen.

Mixed together I’m a manic depressive socialist stuck in a dream.

Sipping at men’s minds through bendy straws

And laughing at conformist pitfalls.

I like to play house when my tits are swollen enough to nurse the spawn as they cry “more milk mommy!”

but I’m sucking, still sucking, at that same boiled teat.

and my nipples are chapping but my arms are empty.

When will I be full—

of gummy mouths and California kings-

of Ashkenazi ringlets and broken glass.

I’ll rest my gentile head now.

It’s Lent and I need meat, my Lord.

My feet need washing but

St. Veronica won’t attend my crucifixion.

You may crucify me now.

And I will weep.

with my lactating breasts;

artificial formula glazing my strung-out torso as a million eyes dissect,

they resurrect.

I will come again.

God Abandons Us

I lie awake soaked in my blood,

yes, my blood…all menstruation, or murder?

it doesn’t matter anymore.

I’ve no more tears as I watch Nostradamus rain against my windows

-the tulip fields all drowned and burnt by the Sun’s vengeance.

I wish I was still asleep.

Sleeping for the chance to split my skull

and set my mind ajar

like the shrieking Jack-in-a-Box

I keep on a soap box

watching it shock and appall onlookers with the same ferocity every time.

I am merely raw.

I should have built my skin with flame,

bones with matches; lungs with kerosene.

Ashes to ashes, I too will fall down.

With my luck, the hand that helps me up is the

same broken elevator shaft,

same camouflaged hunter,

same heroin overdose.

My existence has amused my God.

I’m sure I make him laugh—

clueless, communist, inadvertent…

another bitch on the payroll.

another cog in the machine.

Mama could never murder this that murders me.

But I push forth with a prophecy to fulfill

in a language that I can’t read just yet.

Too selfish to see the humanity

of a life devoted to serving others

and also oneself.

My death will be no great loss

nor a celebration.

Just my soul matter-of-factly splitting

and journeying forth.

First life? Not even close.

First death? No such luck.

We’ve been here a million times.

We’ll be here a million more.

Aimless, chastised, carving our names into history books that will be erased the second it is politically convenient.

We were capitalists this time,

Before that, queens.

Mixed together, we’re all manic-depressive socialists told to stop the dream.

Watching men ban plastic bendy straws

while laughing in private jets on business calls.

I like to play house when my tits are swollen enough to nurse the babies who will never know a dinner table.

When will they be full—

of nourishment, and gentleness, and safety?

of warmth, and home, and teddy bears?

The proletariat must rest now.

It’s a famine and we need meat, my Lord.

Our feet need washing,

But St. Veronica won’t attend our executions, will she?

You will crucify us now

and we will weep

and we will scream,

artificial heroes holding the chloroform rags to our mouths

to dissect,

to elect.

But we will resurrect.