When you write about god, write about the details

‘…and your heart’s no more than meat.’ Jacob Polley ‘Black Water’

He's in the knot in my hair.

The curls have twisted in on each other and lying

with my head that side yields uncomfortable sleep.

Somewhere, next to Him perhaps, is the number

fourteen thousand, some bad dreams, and what

I think is my heart. My soul is safely sewn into my skin.

Polley would have us believe

the metaphors are as dead as I will one day be.

and I suppose it's easier with transient men with accents

because when they leave she can miss them

and that's the part she wants.

It's an easy ache and

who doesn't love a longing?

well the jokes on you.

I loved you so much my eyes ached

and I crippled my back to the weight

of it all then mustered myself enough

to walk away.

I sat down in a corner and put my hands

to use untangling my hair.

Each loose strand brought no joy, but

I felt almost better than anyone I've ever

known – as though an aching body from

having split wood all day and knowing they

have the fuel for what's ahead.

I don't blame You. I

have trouble blaming anyone. It always begins

well enough,

but ends with me coming to some understanding.

You have made me the diplomat, even if You

don't exist. I am caught in foreign wars

with my head bowed and nodding. I consult

every side on all eventualities and make my own

decision to have my arms outstretched

in the end.

Like every true emissary, I understand the

instruction. I carry pity with me wherever

I go. I become execution. I convince myself

that I exist outside the physical.