Lord of abattoirs, of scars, of harmless vultures just doing their job; Lord also of asbestos, of crocs in shadowed water, of wheels within wheels and roadkill—Lord of all, hear us.
You know how we live, having visited us in the flesh (though not biodegradable), having come down to us here in this cesspool of a slaughterhouse.
Lord we beseech thee, offer us your chalice instead of the offal bucket, your paten instead of a petri dish, Eucharist rather than microscope slides stained with cancer cells.
Lord, let there be peace, peace of some sort. One uncontaminated cloud to look up to, a breeze without its own agenda, a sunrise with no baggage—just light. Light. Solace of pellucid light.
No, not a foghorn—not this far inland.
And not a switch engine on the rusted siding, used so seldom weeds have grown between the ties.
Nor a warning blast from the gravel pit out by the hills, shut down since the last recession.
No matter what anyone says to debunk that ominous tone, it’s just what it sounds like: Angels tuning up their shofars for the Apocalypse. The time has come for the final conflict.
Overdue, if you ask me…
These days not even angels can get along with each other. Some purists insist on D flat; others sneer and sound an F just to make them crazy.
And if they settle that, like us they’ll find something else to argue about.
Seaweed moves with the languor of Pre-Raphaelite angels.
Let it teach you to float, insouciant in any storm, though fishing boats founder and tramp steamers crack in half.
It drifts across the Bermuda Triangle untroubled, washing up on shore at last. And if the sun shrivels it, so what? Or if flies converge on its stench.
Nothing sank it.
Don Thompson has been publishing poetry for over fifty years, including a dozen or so books and chapbooks. For more info and links to publishers, visit his website at www.don-e-thompson.com.
Photo credit: “Roadkill” by Andy Hay, Flickr.com (modified by Veronica McDonald)