Poetry - Self

God

When daddy lay dying
you tried to find God.
I said I would look up,
while you looked
under his hospital bed,
through the Bible,
and in the rosary beads
dangling from grandma’s rearview.

Daddy was waiting
like cold, soapy bathwater
to dribble sleepily down the drain
but you could not pull the plug
with your floppy fingers

Everyday
you were folded over
like a wet rag
in the first pew.
A black beacon
amongst stooped silver heads
and spotted skin
singing psalms serenely.
You prayed
as if you were Job
you whispered hotly to God
spitting salty desperation
into your palms

Just wait, daddy
wait for him to answer
the mother
as she tore in
after the bloody mass
of bones
and blonde hair
sitting soaked around a pulpy face
the thin white line
carving slick pathways
for her tears
and as her daughter lay dying
she tried to find God