Nine keepers and their families lived there
no electricity,
no plumbing
no neighbors
no road in or out.
White painted bricks,
Habakkuk stood on the watchtower
complaining to God because the people were evil,
no good,
dirty,
rotten,
shiftless,
no-account
scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells.
(Tell me what you really think, Habakkuk.)
They rob the poor,
starve the hungry,
murder the innocent.
Why do they get away with it?
It’s God’s job to fix them!
Habakkuk wrote it all down
while he waited on the watchtower to see what God would do.
For twenty years he watched from the roof of the highest tower
until his eyes grew old and tired,
until he saw God’s answer come
over the horizon
a swift destroying army
from every direction.
I think everyone
hates me. I trauma dumped. I
really needed help.
the bottle—
promised
relief.
thick.
sweet.
chemical red
(a silver spoon’s salvation)
I tilted it back
like Communion
for a God I yearned to answer.
my throat
burned.
I mumbled
something half-prayer,
half-profane—
not to be healed
just
to sleep-
For a night of relief.
the sickness needed soothing.
you offered sugar.
not cure.
coated tongue
vows whispered soft as syrup—
“just a little more.”
I swallowed.
and you watched.
drunk
on devotion.
numb
to the rot.
now,
even silence
tastes like cherry.
Words stream from my heart
into my blood and I can’t contain
the way they flood into my brain.
The way the dictionary isn’t able
to define the phrases that roam
the halls inside my bones. They
won’t rest and won’t stop until
they flow into my thoughts and
pour out onto the page freely.
i still remember it, the dream,
bohemian sheets and christmas lights
in an airstream unlike where you lived.
you smelled of cigarettes and gin,
grinning from ear to ear, walking in
with a boisterous story to share,
guitar in the corner, a sunset
peering through the doorway.
you were dirty, and it was alluring,
the way i could see you weren’t aware
of just how attractive you are.
before, before didn’t matter, there is just now
that moment, when your lips cease moving,
and your eyes spoke of reciprocity.
the rest, the rest doesn’t matter, there is just then,
a memory not-to-be, a dream amongst the dreamless,
but for a second i believed you could want,
could devour, someone like me.
White cowboy boots bouncing
to the staccato sounds
the bleating banjo
a sweet serenade
this is the closest I’ve come
to church in 20 years
in my 30s worship
looks a little different
its bluegrass
and busted beer bottles
it’s bumping into strangers’ bodies
on a crowded dance floor
hallelujah
amen
I’ve finally found Jesus
