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Genesis
for J.E.T.
It’s been three months
since I’ve written you
a love poem: since I’ve watched words
spill like holy water
from my mouth to a page.
(Every poem I write is a love poem for you.)
I’ve looked for God
in baptismal fonts and cardboard boxes
in purses and pill bottles
in warm chicken eggs and shriveled leaves
(I look for you there too)
but I come up with hands full
of sand.
(In the beginning was the Word, but where are my words?)
After these days
weeks
months
I should be swelling, heavy
with milk and poems
but I am barren
as Lot’s wife
as a pillar of salt
as fields of Odysseus sown with salt.
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