I have an idea: let’s every one of us
Walk into a field-
Thistleberry and old tires growing over each other,
Rusted afterthoughts and migratory birds-
And raise our hands to the sky
To implore the great one to tell us why we are.
I am sure that if all of humanity could cry out,
It would finally
Because once I thought I heard your voice,
But doubts poke like underwire
And I can’t say this burning across my chest
Will fit much longer.
I know I just compared religion
to a ratty old bra but the analogy
works; It’s meant to hold us up and in,
but maybe it’s also meant to be taken off,
reevaluated, the worn tag barely legible,
Six months of pit stains revealing themselves
(Because anyone who says they launder
More often than that is lying).
And so I, gratefully unencumbered, sleep-
Burrowed in relief and guilt-
And watch for the reconciling
Of hope with reason and
palms with the dirt.
Give me that branch
To pull myself up on.