bless you
Jessie went, out and up,
up and out, beyond herself,
among the lilies, branches,
twigs, scattered all across the ground;
and so she sat and sat and sat
and as she sat, her God, He spoke,
but similarly as He had before.
Still she listened—listened close—and
heard what He had to say;
but when He closed His little speech,
she gathered up, hands beside,
and lifted till she stood up high.
She brushed her skirt, she smoothed her hair,
and spoke her words unto the air,
saying thus:
Oh God, she said,
oh God be not.
Please say, oh God, that You are not,
or You are more—
that’s OK too—
more than I can understand,
more than me, my nighttime voice,
a solemn whisper in the dark
that beats me bloody without mercy,
strangles sound, holds silence close;
but instead be quiet light,
quiet light or morning peace
or speckled stars so far beyond,
against response, all weight, all burden-bringing
angry judgement, condescending
fear that haunts me as a ghost,
void of meaning or too full,
a demon of a stainèd past.
This she said, and she was silent.
Would He reply to such rude words?
rife with scorn and indignation?
So, to close—though we don’t know—
I will surmise she felt a touch,
a something different, different something,
Godly dirt, angel dust,
holy pollen in the air?
For she sneezed, and sneezed again,
and lo! she heard a whispered sound
that spoke her name in different tones and
“Bless you” said the Godly voice,
and she wiped her nose.
