Countdown

by Dean Hansen

For ten thousand years we wait,
with veal cutlet dithyramb,
with bloodied hair and sputum,
in war’s thirst, in cripple’s madness,
in severed limb and ripped socket,
in howling, drooling, unrecoverable despair
and pain, with bone cackling weariness.

Crunched, spindled, mutilated, we wait;
burning away to ash, tethered
in brevity’s brush fire,
famished, unclothed, squeaking we wait,
mortal and terrified
for God to tell us something.

Windows closed, doors jammed,
rusted brass, the burden of slavery’s heft,
and dispossession’s engine, crawling on our bellies
in urine, we wait; in mud and crushed rock
we wait; the twinge of stick weapon and flint ax,
boar food, screeching talons, yelping
like dogs beneath Roman garrisons,
storm troupers and bleak dust, trampling
under drum beats, swastika’s, tank treads
and black boots; falling to crossbows, caissons,
battle-axes, broadswords, wheel ruts and
sweltering heat; waiting on a voice like
transient glass, slurring like a rusted nail through
the farce of whip and memory, continuance
and hunger, crumbling teeth and cruel nature.

Through the cancer ward of hot grease we wait, mewling
through tumors and rank pus; through worms, torn sinews,
madness, rot, flies, stink, betrayal, calumny and death,
we hear his voice. And he says:

Good News!  I love you.

… and would you be willing to do a little  honest suffering to give faith support to the invisibility thing?  You know…to weed out the undesirables who don’t understand what they can see?

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