goes international and
God asks you
for a napkin,
you open your palms
like the world is a mass -
waiting for parts
of his body to be
placed on your skin.
The brushing of
a fingertip, the slow
smile of an accident
quickly fall underneath
your tongue
as you remember
the last time
you fell on your knees,
the last time
the Devil and God crossed
paths, as you held parts of
the Beloved in your mouth
like a benediction.
Your communion stays
in your blood stream,
filtering through your body
during the reenactment of
late night
beneath the covers
of memory.
You're ashamed
that months later,
you still taste
the earth that shattered
in the outfall of your ocean
ridden body that tries
to forget that time, waiting
for the wind
to pass along
a 'peace be with you' -
where kryptonite
does not
weaken you
to the knees.
Where you can count
one, two, three...
and know exactly
what the Devil and God
may want of your valves
as you close your eyes
at night to pray,
wiping your mouth
clean of declarations.
Dear God,
today I wrote
a poem.
I saved it
on a napkin
for you after the
Devil tore my dreams
in two, taking off
on the next plane
to Calcutta.
...Now can I be saved?