NOCTURNE FOR DISCONCERTMENT
- 3 days ago
- 1 min read
By Pamilerin Jacob
That arrow you shot at me, O Lord,
passed through me like air through a keyhole.
It is why I am desperate
for belief, having grazed it for a moment.
Let me proceed into the kernel of silence
armed only with the promise of delight.
I know that light falls gently
because it does not want to be wounded.
I could crawl & crawl into myself
only to meet the world waiting
like a serpent’s gape. I will die
on a certain day, but
as Brooks admonishes, not today.
I love you, Lord, but I am a man
made of heaviness. These poems are insults
I hurl at the world you have made.
The world you have made, the world
O, the world is a cruel, unlovable thing —
chainsaw gutting the log of me,
your hands, emptying dirges in my brain.
So far, my weeping has been inconsequential.
My brain is notable only in its despair.
I love cats, never having held one.
If love is greater than hope, then love is delight.