sunday afternoon when god is watching, a poem

i would like You to make me some soup,

Dad.

maybe one sunday when i am doing biology homework

on the crooked edge of the dining-room table,

my brain wheezing and darwin’s theory of evolution falling

like dust through my eyes, i will look up and

You will be standing there.

You will ask me what kind of soup i want

(like You’ve never even left in the first place), and

i will tell You (but it really doesn’t matter what kind).

and i will smile as Your lips part like the red sea,

as You laugh your throaty church-bell tremors that

slide like the shadows of gabriel’s wings into the sky.

i’ll watch You with your strong arms and

feather-light fingers winging away at the deep basin,

silver spoons ringing in a gospel hymn as carrots

fall like egyptian soldiers into a sea of red.

next come the potatoes - broiled with thick skins like

the footpads of the apostles - and

into it we’ll add the salt, small but biting, like

david as he swung the rock and burst

goliath’s skull.

i’ll look up at you in subservience as

You kiss the air -- “Once, for good luck,” you say,

and i’ll close my eyes and lean in close to the pot,

and the steam will rise like a prophecy and

wash

everything

away.

then You’ll hold out the blood to me -

red and thick in a white china bowl, and i’ll

gladly accept, drink it and tomato bits will

stick in my teeth and i’ll laugh even though

i’ve never tasted anything more sour in my life.

You’ll smile Your still-photograph smile, Dad, because

it’s the only thing i can remember, and You’ll hold

the ladle out to me like an opportunity, and i’ll

drink some more, and ask for more, and when i finish

You’ll wrap your arms around me, and

i’ll close my eyes and think

i’ve never felt anything

more heavenly in my life.