Nov
24
Writing the Impossible
Where was God, the Yahweh,
as we sat in my car, timid,
a Christian and Muslim, missing?
Was it goodness we felt
when my lip pierced your Heaven,
pouring out thick, Islamic lore?
At night, would I go to sleep,
Bible beside lamp — or would
Angels leaf though the Surahs?
And as my dreaming unclasped
would it be streets of gold—
or Houris, and rivers of milk?
But this is all I hold true:
your hot, July flesh: impossible;
ergo, I write the impossible:
Hallelujah. Subhan’Allah.
Emmanuel. Masha’Allah.
© 2009 Constantine Kulakov
