After the Orange Alert


I love Godís foot, always threatening
to slam down on my house, leave me
twisted and splintered in war-torn
somewhere.† When I was ten I learned
to ignore the preacher and read
Revelation to feed my need for the uglyó
burning buildings, wrecked cars.
All of it our fault, and Godís hug
so clumsy it could crush us.

That was the real show, wasnít it,
what we were all in line to see?
And isnít love only good when itís
desperate, or when everyone hates you
except the one woman willing to open
her belly for you, or the man who offers
his chest as a pillow. This is why
I am ecstatic about the prospect of war,
that a building could crumble on top of me.
At last, love is not abstraction, terror
is color-coded, the world is as ugly
as me and my red, red heart.


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