I don’t know, Lord, but sometimes I feel
like all my accomplishments
could fit inside a Pez dispenser,
with room left over for candy.
Let my coins spilled on earth
add up to a fortune in heaven.
I’ve seen bricks content
to hold up other bricks. I’ve seen
middle managers whose bosses
called them successes, whose families
were sunshine at the soccer complex.
But you made me a brick that wished
to be a wall, and if I’d succeeded
at becoming a wall, seeing people trapped
inside or kept outside, I would have wanted
only to fall. Lord, let me fall.
Call it an accident or call it
my plan tucked inside your plan.
Verily Lord, you made me
and I made mistakes
and you filled me with ambitions
like air inspiring a balloon. Pop
is the sound I make calling out
to you from the torn-up dark and crash
is what I do in my car and my bed.
You speak. I can almost hear you.
I see your lips move
every time I see a flock
lifted by the dead distant
light of the stars.
Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash
Thanks to editor Rose Postma for publishing this poem.