Pretty Cozy

I feel lucky that for me poetry releases the demons (where will they go now?). Writing what eats at me. Demons. Well, this particular one, anyway.

Oh, and I know. I'm asking questions again. I can't escape myself.
On second thought, me and me, we're pretty cozy. I think I'll stay.




Christmas Tree in the Background, 2008

I think there is no you for me.
And if there is no you for me
to praise, I'll revere, instead, the land,
water, weather and every human hand
that worked to move this food to our table.

But if there is no you for me to pray to –
no force or lack of force to hold
accountable for misfortune’s consequence --
who will be my God? And what
should I replace you with?

Who should my intent be aimed toward
if there is no you?
What can I appease? How shall I
entice goodwill to bestow itself
on lowly me and my neighbors

who ask that I pray them into wellness
when they are ill.
If you aren’t there to hear?
Here to hear?

And if there is no you then
there is no him
either. So who is starving babies there
wherever I am not
while we're here filming baby's first
birthday cake?