I am not in his body but I made his,
so when I am woken at 2 am the night of my wedding
by a cacophony of voices I quickly realize
are only his one voice, sobbing, outside a window,
reciting a prayer for the people of Gaza,
shouting the borrowed words to a Lord
not our family’s own, but someone’s good Lord,
his upturned face aglow below the moon of his phone,
I go to him. Shhhhhhhh and worry when he cries
into my neck that he cannot not do something, he will,
this man who would offer his life to the void for less
than a people, who would trade the body I made
for justice, retribution, peace, limbless children,
wailing mothers, brothers, husbands, sisters,
sons, daughters, fathers, wives, grandmothers,
grandfathers, aunts and uncles, nieces, nephews,
friends and lovers, all digging through rubble with rough,
bleeding hands. If only he could throw himself, dark angel,
upon the ones responsible, if such multilocation,
such proximity, were possible. What can I tell you, son?
I, too, pray, in my own helpless way, wrapping
a borrowed printout of an ancient prayer and
sandalwood mala around a conman’s ridiculous book
about the art of the deal, as though human lives
were cards to play, shuffle into his pack of lies.
As though words and wooden beads could restrain him.
I tuck between the beads and book an amulet:
plastic card of a wrathful, azure goddess, three faced,
canines bared, tongues out, eyes fierce, wild haired,
crowned with skulls, adorned with a necklace of ego’s heads,
engulfed by a full body halo of flames, riding
a black mule with snake halter and reins, mounted
atop the skin of a corpse—impermanence. Her six hands
lift aloft an axe, skull cup of blood, wisdom mirror
at her heart, flaming sword, dagger—cutting knots
of illusion, the poisons of greed, hatred and ignorance.
Above it all: her victory banner, whipping in the wind.
They would call her a demon. She is taking her time.
The world is tired of praying. The deities are tired
of waiting for us to wake up, become them.
