A girl tied to a post
flames beginning to lick her feet.
A pair of stones just outside the hearth
flat, smooth, shining with Hebrew inscriptions.
A dog trots up, licks the crusted
ankle sores of Lazarus
who stretches toward the girl
pleading for crumbs. The girl smiles.
The flames tickle. The dog snaps the crumb that sails
from her mouth. Lazarus continues to stretch.
And the poet – What does he do?
He takes it all down as he kneels at their feet
– the dog, the sores-riddled man, the flame-riddled girl –
into his notebook, making a legend
of the burning bush
and the Great I Am That Whispers.
The Masters That Rule look down
from their dung heaps, heaping
scorn on the poet as the grungy trio sing
their last praises to the
Maker Of It All.
The flames sizzle high.
The sores leap from Lazarus’s back
light on the sacred stones.
The dog lifts his leg, arcs an impotent stream
to wash the stones clean.
The poet sings. The Masters rejoice. The Great I Am lies back
boggled by What He’s Done.
“It is Good!”