Please don’t exist.

Though daughters speak of hunger—
their lips pursed,
stomachs poised to fill
like squeezed accordions.

Please don’t be literal.

Though sons hope for succor—
their fingers crossed,
knees ready to bend and beat
the earth like timpani.

Please don’t be our Heavenly Apology—
the Third Comforter,
the very Eternal Ombudswoman or,
as I suspect some desire,
a baggage-free Queen and Priestess—
a rushing mighty pleasance.

Please, please don’t be.

I am a jaded disciple of Lo,
here! and Lo, there!
But I am also a son
already loving the only mother
he needs.
And I do not want to hear
what I will ask…

if you exist—
Why do you allow suffering?
What kind of mother sits still
during Haun’s Mill or
Mountain Meadows?
Do you expect me to believe
They just started listening to you
in 1978?
And if They did, where pray tell
were you when
the Policy fell from heaven?
Not enough I kick against the pricks
before the Father—
must I grill you too?

I stare up into the cloudy trail
we didn’t name the Seminal Way,
and I pray, and I pray…

Please only be stars.

Poet’s Note:

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