i can’t praise You like a god.
i’ve never believed in infinity,
but i wish i could say i believed
in divinity. then, i could find out
what “holy” is meant to be,
and i’d alter the definition
to fit Your name. instead, i am
adrift, scourging every labyrinth
for an offering to lay on Your altar.
and if i can’t find it, i’ll build
a shrine from all the shy poems
i’ve meant to write for You.
i wouldn’t know how to pray.
but i’d be willing to be prey
if it would keep You from starving.
maybe it’s less that i can’t praise You
like a god. i think, in some ways,
i do. i have fallen to my feet,
ripped my liver out
and plated it for You
so You can drink the traces
of alcohol you find inside.
and when You said that it wasn’t
enough, i limped
with my wound still exposed,
to a liquor shop and bought You
a shelf of whiskey and gin.
my knees are burned from kneeling
at where i look up at You
through clouded glass.
You could clean it.
i prayed for You to clean it.
I understand now.
I can praise you like a god,
but you will only ever treat me
as a follower.
