I will just come out and say that my rage on behalf of your pain,
when spent, mocks the hell out of me.
I thought that if I had the grit to carry on through the night,
burning with the words of Genesis,
wrestling with any angel,
gripping the leg of God,
you would wake up laughing,
the way you did in your child’s body.
It is tempting to think in the midst of it I am gaining,
that my railing is reaching the bench,
a decision in your favour, imminent.
Yet with every blow I go back like the parabolic widow,
begging a loaf for you,
or even a snake, for a snake is something.
But when the ash is cold, the blood dry on my burr coat,
and my treaties come back to me torn,
I remain—alone with a gift of stone,
and curses, that coil at the ends of my fingers.
Should I forgo the pardonable backspace?
For what is pardon or repute to your knife-edge nights?
And if I were called up to those cliffs of accounting,
made to stand at the edge of that great fixed gulf,
should I fear the lake and taste of sulphur?
How could I when I come carrying only
your silent banner of pain.