Poem: A Prayer
May those afflicted with demons that pour bile in the ear
(and more corrosive spirit everywhere else)
recognize, as with an epiphany of grace —
the kind normally associated with visions of angels and women who have conceived
without the mess —
that the land they profess to love and cherish,
like a child,
which mirrors both the best and worst of his daddy’s soul, prismatic,
is a reflection of the men and women and lovers and haters that occupy the dirt,
brown and black and gray sometimes, when the fertility has been sucked out by greedy roots.
