Without a Prayer
I count to a hundred as instructed. When I open my eyes again, a torn
and bleeding god is shuffling along a street of pawnshops and
check-cashing stores. There are soothing old hymns that no one dares
sing. "Always keep a gun by your side," a voice meant for radio says.
Someone else asks if that's the ocean or a flood. Light and shadow
refuse to stand still. Foraging bees travel like rumors of the fierce
sunrise of your body. I fight to stay awake until then.