I was leafing through the Old
Testament, stopped at David,
wondered if I could whip
a slingshot, find the bulls-eye
on a giant’s forehead, watch him drop,
still be a “Christian.”
Maybe I’m more like Job, all life’s
injustices sewn into my multi-colored
Joseph-coat of misery, no rabbit’s foot
or horseshoe, not enough therapy.
In her inscribed Bible she lives
in the New Testament, highlights
passages of hope and mercy, miracles:
Jesus walks on water, Lazarus
rises, and then Jesus, his self,
washes all those pagan feet,
commands us to do the same.
I haven’t dared to look at all her
dog-eared pages, not sure I could
survive all that mercy, me sitting
here in the dank pit of the whale’s
belly, cursing the darkness,
grasping blindly for purchase,
for smooth stones.