When the sauna of August lost its conviction,
we were able to open the house and turn the AC off,
let air and birdsong in, the wind
to dust the shelves and touch one of us
by proxy when the other was in a different room,
after months of being sealed in the cool coffin
of comfort. I’d forgotten what it’s like
to have my skin wake up before my eyes do
or to smell moonlight. It made me walk around naked
and think of people, how open and honest
I wish we could be, how interesting we are
in our pursuit of the cause of plate tectonics,
or when getting stuck in turnstiles, but then Rushdie
was stabbed and I got back in my armor
and sealed the house in papier-mâché
mixed with concrete and fear. I believe in God
only within the church of my cupped hands,
in what I say to ants, in how I stare at the sun
directly with my breath, never out loud
to humans, who’d tell me I’ve slandered God
or that my god is the wrong god, a non-god, a devil
in the disguise of trees and the shadows of vultures
suturing through the tall grass in the field.
A god of green, of peace. But maybe the way forward
is for all of us to stab everyone we disagree with,
or run them over, or pack their noses and asses
with battery acid until only one of us remains,
who by the logic of murder will be right
about everything they think or say.
No need for books then, for authors or readers,
for movies based on books when no one’s around
to complain that the book is better,
and heavier, and more useful as a doorstop
or a request to think once again
about what love or God or empathy is, or isn’t,
in a way that makes you look up from a page
and feel the sky finally looking back at you.