How can you believe what you can’t see?
Jesus said believe in me to Peter, and to others,
and they didn’t blink, they gulped and swallowed
maybe, but no doubt what was belief then,
the way a nausea drools, then convulses you.
In Baltimore it spread because a host of
weathers comes together and the days are black
in their mood, hurt’s just waiting, you are not
anyone special, not chosen, but you believe
in yourself, not words you hear rasped as you pass
an alley, maybe late for lunch, or leaving church,
or like me, opening the mailbox, just a little
step, no trouble expected, and the whole of you’s
flying, a failed physics assumption. Only
even that doesn’t last, there’s a superior premise
under the invisible, and it’s harder. I got dumped
like a horse I saw a girl strike with a two-by-four.
Half under my car, freezing, I started to pray.
Let me get up, please. I sounded like a boy
years ago in the dark practicing for Jesus, or
at least hoping I would sound real to the faces
when I professed my faith. After a while
I crawled to a bench, a perfect afternoon empty
as my heart, no cars, no walkers, how could I
not see how slippery the world was, and wait?
Also by Dave Smith (see all)
- Of David Bottoms, My Friend - May 30, 2021
- Black Ice - June 24, 2018
- Nobody’s Dog - June 24, 2018