Maybe we talk too much.
Maybe God no longer enters
the conversation; maybe
it is as though writing the books—
66, unless you include
nature—was enough. The author,
a recluse hearing our interpretations,
our tiring and local exegeses,
as though watching a repeating parade,
is done now, has left this
millennia midrash of Q and A.
Of course the silence cuts both ways,
and of course it allows being taken
on other’s terms; how, why God would
do this while knowing it takes us too much
concentration to avoid the fear that
we are addressing
a toddler (we think most people
are) or a deaf old person dreaming
of when the world was young. Anyway
I still pray, when I pray,
too loudly, can’t say I fault
those who think God a force.
Could it be
as a matter of first principles,
asked about the chatter, asked
about the manner of
asking not in the usual
wind parting waters,
blood on a door frame, broken bread, or
wine spilled, or somewhere a rock left
on a long sloping hillside
for someone chosen to read?
Outside of our
usual arguments over the usual
suspects, it is that we know: A silent visitor appeared,
visualized for countless breathless
minutes in a sketch artist’s rendering
from those who told, in
several languages and races, and caught in the act,
a feeding, an act shaping space
temporary as a feeling, permanent as hunger.
Cover image by Mike Labrum.