contemplation

The sun makes summer in any sort of weather.

Jesus is in the back of the 2002 Buick,

Judas Iscariot at the wheel.

We wonder why the world revolves around swallowing words

to make space for our mothers.

Do the clouds worry when the birds go missing?

They are buried underground against the dark, black soil

eyes are facing Heaven, or where it ought to be.

It’s only uncomfortable because the lights are off.

If betrayal had a taste, it would be hot

tea with hints of salt, measured carefully from the

deep ocean. Lingering with that gold he wouldn’t spend.

You’re afraid to die because your hope lies in

the promises of silence.

Where is the rainbow now, Noah?

Lily, the world as you know it is ceasing

to exist. But you pray to

a God that continues to disappoint.