November 3, 2022Prayer for an Inmate of RVJDC
God is probably a Belgian endive,
which is a vegetable I don’t believe in.
A fist-sized, tender, lettuce-looking thing
that sprouts from chicory, under covering
of dust and darkness. If it’s lopped from the root,
another grows and grows, until some rot
takes hold. That’s the point, most likely,
when someone cleans and grinds the chicory
to make the coffee you’re drinking, which looks
almost good—thick as ink on a handmade book—
but lots of things appear as what they’re not.
Once you’ve snapped the endive’s huddled
leaves from their whiskered base, there’s no hiding
the kind of bitterness you’ve got.
from #35 - Summer 2011