I talk to God but the sky is empty. –Sylvia Plath, unabridged journals
I speak god-language,
because people die
and god is the tongue of death.
Death stopped time, left me behind
my father with the small pot of raspberry
jam he ate with a spoon.
My story-line is a birth, a death, a tooth-
ache, an infatuation, a drowning,
an affair or perhaps a marriage,
a divorce, a death by fire. It’s not very
different than yours–a flash-memory
in the shower, a bruise without details.
There is no god but God. But
have I ever considered conversion
or even faith? I perished the thought.
There was no metanoia the day
I fell from grace and lost my name on the road.
Lost is an actual place, you know.