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–