Poem of the Week

One hot, bright, Sunday afternoon
I was ambushed
by pressing intestines, throes of nausea and weeping,
the desire to tear my hair and strip naked
in the middle of my life and howl
until bone dry:
What do you want from me, God?
Once I stopped crying,
the man who sat waiting said,
“You’re so sensitive, that’s why you get short of breath.”
Which started me crying again, because it was true
and also a lie,
and therefore only half consoling.
Breathe deeply, he urged, splash some cold water on your face,
let’s take a walk around the block, it’s psychological.
What ex-voto can I bring to the Cathedral
if I’m not sick but still need a cure?
My devout friend has turned Buddhist,
I’m rooting for her to get disillusioned
and go back to praying Catholic prayers with me.
I could never be a Buddhist,
for fear of not suffering, for fear of getting all Zen.
Is there really such a thing as a happy saint or is it just the biographers
who paint them as such sunny saps?
The state of Minas Gerais is full of terrible things,
Mercy Mountain afflicts me.
Boulders and boulders
of such immediate beauty,
and then buildings sprung straight from hell,
courtesy of the uncreator of the world.
And there’s that little boy who can’t hang on much longer,
he’s going to die, too weak to suck
the string of dark flesh that’s supposed to be a breast,
lost to flies.
My heart is good
but can’t believe it.
My man showers me with gifts,
why am I given so much
when what I deserve is solitary confinement?
Words? No, I said—I can only accept weeping.
So why ever did I wipe my eyes
at the sight of the climbing rosebush
and that other thing I didn’t want—
no way did I want it right then,
the poem,
my ex-voto,
not the shape of what’s sick
but of what’s sound in me
which I push and push away,
pressed by the same force
that works against the beauty of the boulders?
Both God and the world are begging for love,
which is why I’m richer than either one.
I alone can say to the stone:
you are beautiful to affliction.
just as I can say to Him:
You are beautiful, beautiful, so beautiful!
I almost understand why I’m gasping for air.
Choosing the words to describe my agony,
I’m breathing easier already.
Some of us God wants sick; others he wants writing.