Love from Gabriel

I left word with God that I’d borrowed a book
off him when he wasn’t looking
– not one of the big ones,
just a collection of verse by someone small
who never left the mountain and drew water from
a well in the ground. I was afraid he’d say, “Take
the big one, it’s got better words;” but it’s hard
to read, no chronology or timelines, all arrows
through the heart; and I’d rather read what a man on a mountain
wrote than what a man on a mountain heard
God say.

I must be a little broken, then. Good folk
read all the books, good books are especial, and here I shy
from the heft of prophecy. If I dig through my skin,
will I find my own? I don’t think so. When I was 8, I thought
the air, the trees, would speak to me and this would be
the voice they’d all heard. When I was 8 I thought
I was the second that had come. Now there’s a couple
of eights more, and no love from Gabriel coming my way.

And I know. This is not our calling.

But I would have it be. What is so little
in me that my skin doesn’t ring? I used to be God’s favourite
telephone, he called me all the time. They were little conversations,
I let no one’s people go, but I would find my own way out of
doors sometimes. Now, a wet paper bag and my lethargy
rules a tiny world. I ball a fist, I let it go, I ball a fist, I…
I read
small poems in the mouths of caves, on short mountains
in warm climates, I let birds ignore me on their way to shit on
half-sunk temples – I walk back down. It takes
ten minutes.

Sad hermitage. Promiscuous nun
with bad sex in her life. Epiphany is just around the corner
and there’s a treadmill beneath my feet.

Who put that there?

*

God-love-you, you know not where you turn. You left
word with God you’d be back before supper and now
the sun’s risen and it’s time to fast again. Have you eaten
anything since you left his side? Don’t go hungry.
Gabriel’s on his way and it’s not prophecy, or manna, it’s not
the host,

it’s just the bread Escariot couldn’t finish because
he had too much on his mind. And the wine they poured
the calf but never drank for wrath of Moses. And you’ve
already seen your naked parts.

He’s got big wings
the size of the sky, but he’s not looking to edge
you out. Just take of this bread, and this wine, eat
of this fruit, you’ve got to eat, girl, stand on your own
adoring feet, finally

switch your skin on.

*

I borrowed a heart off you when you weren’t
looking, God – not one of the big ones, just
a collection of verse that never left my mountain
and drew water from your ground. I was afraid
you’d say, “You can’t take your own heart away,
you’ll break it or something.” Now it’s got all arrows
through; and I want to hear other words.