Poem: Invocation

Invo­ca­tion
by Mau­rya Simon

O God–who art dust mote and fern spore,
salt crys­tal and dog-star, who art refin­ery smoke,
cumu­lus, leaf-rot, dish­wa­ter and spindrift–
how can I know thy invis­i­ble movements
through this world, when thou inhab­it even
the debris of lives, the per­fo­ra­tions of years?
God, who wears the green mask of death,
who vis­its the world in wisps of prayer,
how can I divine thy face through my tears?
Give me some sign–a thumbprint, a fragrance
of hyacinth, stig­ma­ta of coal on my brow–
that I may steep my silence in faith;
show me thy secret hand­shake welcoming
the weeds, thy lumi­nous smile, thy mind
that spins the world wild­ly on its axis–
con­se­crate me as thou would the tiger’s yawn,
offer­ing itself like the poor man’s bowl,
to the ter­ri­fied fawn, to the way­ward dove–
and I will do thy bid­ding, pol­ish­ing words
so they gleam like ice, aban­don­ing my rage
to kneel before thee, swal­low­ing my doubt.
But there is no answer when I call out,
and my long­ing dark­ens my throat, my mouth.
How can I lift my eyes to a gut­ted sky?
O God, who art nei­ther father nor son, nor
holy ghost, who art haloed by radi­um clouds,
beloved by mil­lions of spark­plugs and ants,
thou who nes­tles in war’s lap, in the breasts
of desire, who con­spires with the dark­est joys,
who art as amor­phous as a map of stillness–
I cry out to thee again and again, over
and over, and only the wilder­ness answers,
and the dan­ger­ous world’s laughter–

Cyn is Rick's wife, Katie's Mom, and Esther & Oliver's Mémé. She's also a professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
Posts created 4255

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Related Posts

Begin typing your search term above and press enter to search. Press ESC to cancel.

Back To Top