Sicker

Yesterday I doubted —
the signals all obscured.
I forget how to interpret —
to read or speak the words.
One bruise, and I get sicker.

All of the gods say turn it around,
but I hear them distantly,
behind the alarms and sirens.
There’s no way out, after all.

And the human counsel…
(“It’s the fucking patriarchy, darling,
and the terror of the earthly meltdown.”)

As above, so below.
As without, so within.

But the healing has to start somewhere.

So,
in the absence of a helping human hand,
we wear out our knees,
all we’ve left, pleas
for an intervening godly plan.