Ruminations of a Cook Between Rushes

Would that I never find a God or Gods,
for that, that would end my faith. My faith –
the certain unknowledge of knowing
anything but the black ass of Jesus running away,
laughing, leaving prints unpressed by wind,
rain, and all things that erase a path –

And the mocking torture of stigmata –
welts and blister, scab and ointment –
the forearms of a cutter – sliced on the bias
in fire and rare medium wells.

I’d sooner prostrate myself before a goat
and take the headbutt clean, knowing
that if I prostrate myself before a goat,
I’ll take a horn on the cheek and turn the other.

But here’s the thing with goat – gamey –
and butchered so that small bones
come slyly in a bite and jab the hard palate,
maybe torture a tooth, below the gum – and yes –
the roll-eye rube goes round-eye fast
and that is the tail end of sacrifice –
the real blood letting.

No, to find a God, to kneel there –
as acolyte or beggar – slave
to some other bliss, sure
in the knowledge of mine own
salvation – For I Believe –
is the succor of fools
that never heard the popping of bone
from bone as they severed the leg
of a chicken – held it – leg in one,
breast in the other, twisted
until the joint broke clean.

I suppose it is easy to place your fate
in the hands of a God – maybe –
but harder still, in the hands of men,
shrill circumstance, and the flat-seat ways
of numerous hosts.

Image: JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash

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