My mother is concerned

My mother is concerned
to hear me talk this way.
I try to reassure her.
Sometimes people
don’t feel good. Don’t feel
you need to fix it. 

I tell her I’ve known
the kindness of God 
in this hellhole. 
I hear her confusion, 
silent, on the other line: God
doesn’t go to hell.  

But he does, Mamma.
Let me tell you.  

Take a look at the crucifix 
next Sunday. Who hangs on it? 
If God didn’t come down
to dwell with the dead
we’re all damned. Because   

I’m dead again tonight.
And I’m sure more than one 
of those I love is dead 
or dying with me,
in some tasteful house,
in some well-lit room,
his head a killer,
this night a tomb,
and only Jesus with him,
the God who left heaven  

to be dead.
God with us.
Dead with us.