It’s Not Like Nikola Tesla Knew All of Those People Were Going to Die
Everyone wants to write about god
but no one wants to imagine their god
as the finger trembling inside a grenade
pin’s ring or the red vine of blood coughed into a child’s palm
while they cradle the head of a dying parent.
Few things are more dangerous than a man
who is capable of dividing himself into several men,
each of them with a unique river of desire
on their tongues. It is also magic to pray for a daughter
and find yourself with an endless march of boys
who all have the smile of a motherfucker who wronged you
and never apologized. No one wants to imagine their god
as the knuckles cracking on a father watching their son
picking a good switch from the tree and certainly
no one wants to imagine their god as the tree.
Enough with the foolishness of hope and how it bruises
the walls of a home where two people sit, stubbornly in love
with the idea of staying. If one must pray, I imagine
it is most worthwhile to pray towards endings.
The only difference between sunsets and funerals
is whether or not a town mistakes the howls
of a crying woman for madness.