Or maybe He never shuts up.
You tell me.
Think of supernovas and the blind
seed cracked open, ecstatic
with moisture, the utter generosity
rather than nothing.
And here come the penguins.
Is that silence? In what language?
It’s like this—
every morning God lifts
the nuclear sun in His bare hands
and remakes the world instant by instant
and not once does He say
“you owe me.”
Darwin raised his doubts. Could a caterpillar
eaten alive from the inside out
by the larvae of a parasitic
wasp be the art of God’s love? The very idea...
And yes, the God of hurricanes
and stillborns, our Lord of disease
and life-giving death.
We recognize His touch, His wicked
humor and His tenderness,
all of us
no choice and no exceptions.
So I ask God, “Am I making You up?”
And He speaks to me. “Honey,
of course you are.”
The true, the original work
comes out of the blue
and God is the blue.
—Published previously in The Windhover (Volume 19, Spring 2015); appears
here with poet’s permission
is the author of two books of poetry: The Glass Children (The University of Georgia Press) and Success Stories (Limestone Books). He is also the author of a memoir, Catholic by Choice (Loyola Press). His poems and essays have been published in The New Yorker, Poetry, Hudson Review, Sun Magazine, Barrow Street, Diode, The American Journal of Poetry, Ruminate, Dappled Things, Image Journal, and various anthologies. Honors include an NEA fellowship and a Bush Foundation grant. Cole works as a painter and business writer in Austin, Texas.
More at: www.richard-cole.net