if suffering doesn’t bring about resurrection the longing inherent to suffering will do it (intuit a spark a fire intuit Christ non- existent for three days not simply somewhere else in heaven or hell but in a cave behind a stone a body without the electricity of a soul the empty zeros of the abyss being filled up by G-d knows what those cold moments utterly void of love in the living room or the kitchen the loneliness inherent to this haplessness of all varieties of war
joyous G-d with a diphthong for a heart speaking guttural utterances and finding some soil to dig into calls man up like a whirlwind from the dust to name the animals and watch the rain from within the cleft of a sheltered plane like all reality entering in to a room at once even the windows are unable to stay shut and the grass all around bowing down in the breeze lies plastered to the ground laughing all the while “and what my love do you want to call this cloud of dust” a hippopotamus Adam says jokingly though the name sticks
so the angel Gabriel kept his word and hid his face for my own good he spoke things that I couldn’t understand I was filled with sparks and my joints began to burn and the sky above the interstate was a needlepoint of my life and I could finally see how eternity was not the same thing as forever but rather an all-at-onceness which really makes time a kind of grace that protects us from something like the expanse of the sky or the reality of such a feeling in a vast field the universe falling around me like a veil and then lifted
I listen from the other room as slow bells ring, as you take each glass from the water washing it with the soapy canary yellow dishrag that your mother knitted for us last Christmas. And though I can't see your hands I can hear the wetness like the sound of fingers on a fogged car window, thinking about how there is a certain beauty to the atonal, a certain human quality to the arrhythmic. Like the trees outside our bedroom which grow thirty branches in every direction, or the clouds that move above them in no particular pattern. Yet each and every summer I will hear the sounds of small birds just before dawn and later see the erratic transmissions of lightning bugs. And so it is here, in this atmosphere. We wake up, we begin to push the unseen weight, we shift the glory, we do the dishes. And though the grand rhythm is not of our choosing, it seems to be our creaturely duty to show what this living sounds like when the beat is missed or even remains unheard. This is our rage and our subtle acknowledgment that we do not feel alone as much as abandoned.