My religion is simple.
Let us pray.
No Savior but the second coming
of a scavenger kitten
trembling in my flashlight beam
by the pantry door.
No Holy Mother,
just the crone selling cherry bombs
on the Third of July
at the Thunderbird Tribal Casino.
No patron Saint
but the half-blind abuelo
carefully cramming cages of hens
into the luggage rack
on the midnight flight from
Newark to San Juan.
No Revelation, only the wail
of the newborn citizen
whose mother crossed over
in the hour before dawn,
her final breath a one-word prayer,
“Al Norte.”
I believe in the Last Judgment.
It is an infant’s tear
without circumference.
The sound of a wood thrush
is the end of time, a Parousia
in each dogwood blossom.
I am a fallen creature
plummeting into grace.
From what should I be saved?
I was never lost.
The mountaintop is wherever I am.
I vow to wander.
My Pilgrimage will be a journey
into the backyard.
Angels of dew in a wilderness of moss,
clover cathedrals, the priestess
a ladybug, the starry empyrean
whirling in black loam,
grand epiphanies
for the eremitic visionary earthworm.
Let us dig.
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