MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Little Hoot by Christine Catalano

Table of Contents

Poetry


Simply

Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke

It simply was and I was that
-- Thomas Merton

The flickering candle flame entered the universe,
and God followed. He stepped around puddles
and time and desires, he flew and he walked,
he stopped on Sunday to give directions to
a lost traveller – and as I watched I saw
little, and the little I saw was before
the candle.

Is it too much to see? Is it a primitive bravery
heard in the coursing of blood? When the
ceiling is a galaxy away and the earth is a
benign black hole, perhaps it is good. I knew
the tallness of trees, I sang with their branches,
and God put down his newspaper – at least
he said he did.

In the blood of God is nothing. Let the stain be red.
And in the whiteness of cloth, a resurrected inside,
to come, and be, if there is enough room. Smear
God’s journey over your body, and a thousand
electric assassinations charm your walk – better
than a walk alone into the air. Quietly,
be a candle.

A perpetual motion machine stops.
Nuns and friars scour the skies for looters—
God, please give me back time, please put the
tip jar into a cupboard. And so God looked,
and so his son belonged more to us, suddenly.
Touch him, as he becomes a thousand
years awake.




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