Sermon in Which I Talk to God about Our Codependency Issues

You think compassion is buying toilet paper
in bulk, turning off every light
at night save the one
above the stove.

I do not disagree with you.

But sometimes I wish the toilet paper smelled
of meadows or that it were so
threadbare I had to use a whole roll
to exorcise one hand's
red nail polish.

I wish you would turn on
every light in the house,
go to bed with your eyelids
propped open
by matchsticks.

You want to stamp PAID
in capital letters across all
my bruises.

I want you to pull out all your cuticles
with your teeth or scrape
at old scabs until you bleed
into the La-Z-Boy and
cry out for me
to run to CVS for booze
and bandages.

I'm sorry.

You think compassion is what you gave us:
spirit made into a flesh ripened
by one womb
and many wounds.

But I think compassion
would have had a woman
bring your rotting boy
back to life.



(Audio forthcoming.  I'm stuck in an airport--hear me later tonight.)