Broken Prayer by Colin Dardis

I am not a silent poet

Jesus, I have knelt under the apple knee
and tasted the serpent’s poison,
but a man may pray for antidote
with mouth and mind and heart and hands
open in sweet sustaining supplication;
bleed for me Jesus, and let me taste sanctuary in your blood,
shelter from the rampaging hordes
of crazies drugging the streets with their diatribes,
crazies worshipping their golden bombs
and silver Kalashnikovs aiming at the hearts
of every good, kind, sane person out there.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, sweet Lord Jesus,
I have lost count of how many times I have forsaken you,
distracted from my calculations
by whore-shaped sin, blubbering breasts
offering barbed wire teats to suckle upon,
lilting, riving torsos across the streets
promising perhaps the shallowest of gratifications
as they toss and discard lovers like tissues;
and I became a whore myself,
whoring to the power of fiscal pleasure,
unemotional security kept in vaults…

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