Dear God,

Sage CohenSage poetry and prose, The life poetic5 Comments

I thought forgiveness was a choice
like wearing the black shoes with

the grey tights, face arranged
for the mirror. I thought I could

make a bouquet of my thoughts,
thirst clipped to the small bowl

of understanding. Politely,
I swallowed my life as if I

were smuggling myself in
until rage burned my bones

clean. Blood the story passed
from mother to child who

decides when it is time
to turn the page, his room

a cage of wobbly words.
Can I pet them
, he asks,

understanding already
the gravity of permission.

Yes, this is how they like to be
stroked, under the chin and

down the back. Which is how
the words learn to trust him,

grow tame in his human
hands until they are unwilling

to leave at all, flight
trained to pen, to page.

5 Comments on “Dear God,”

  1. Yes, like so many other things that look like choices, the closer you look the less optional it seems ūüôā

    Wonderful poem!

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