To horses, God is a horse. To
bears, God is a great
brown bear. To sad
nostalgic midlife bachelors, what wears Creation’s crown is Someone who once had
a
Garden with two friends inside, who left because they wanted more. Elsewhere now, they write; they multiply; they ply their deft maneuvers in the bay, their
bobbing prow
cleaving the foam. To fools who blew their shot at love, God is a dashing, suave Don Juan. Committed to nobody’s
survival, not even His
own, He loves what isn’t gone:
the starry darkness of the
open night. God’s
whatever you are, so get it right.
Father McKenzie’s Banquet
Father McKenzie rinses rice so thoroughly, you’d think it was a formal
feast for twelve that he’s preparing. Not that he’s overly concerned;
Apostles may invite themselves
at any time. Unshaven, he’s past caring;
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Paul, George and Ringo in the window
staring at his supper would be welcome, each and all.
Old Miss Rigby’s
number is around here somewhere. From the saucepan, steam rises up to
whisper in his ear: Romance, romantic love, love, the dream
that
spread its ancient wings and disappeared so long ago? Still here. Still
starving, as you feared.
