For S. F.
There’s a fellow down at the tennis courts
Who keeps asking me about god. Which one,
I wonder, Yawah? Krishna? Zeus? Or Thor?
Inari? Jesus? Crow? Allah? Kwannon?
Countless more—each the hero of some book
Each with strange powers, each the source of dread.
Marduk, perhaps? (good for fertility
And thunderstorms). Or Horus, the falcon
Who pulled the sun across the sky? “Don’t say
God” I cry—call out the name, then we’ll see—
Cobble up some answer to your plaint; lay
To rest all wonder, doubt, constraint and fear!
Then, stunned, wide-eyed, you’ll know you are alone.
No ancient relics, shattered holy bones
Caressed, worshipped—no desp’rate prayers intoned
Can save your sorry ass. You’re on your own!
(9/22/07)