I poison my food forgetting to pray
Letting the day
Or night fall into illusory questioning,
Best when the plinko ball leaves the multiple-choice game and
Rests in the grass
Lest the mass inspires me to ask
Is mind, chance, or prayer my saving grace?
Engraving space for fallacies to pour in like a mob chasing after the free
Laughter by we,
Who fall short of worthy praise
In this gymnasticky jazz of dazzle and ribboned loopholes
Dancing camels through needle’s eye
The trombone slides
As if big ideas are toys like books on a shelf, and next line the
Sax, notes stacked in scales, waiting to be rearranged,
One comes along and dips her toes into the moon
Makes a rippling tidal tune…
I realize people are people and not
Ideas, or even notes or voices
When starved of the choices they invent in whatever jeweled world
Ruled by a licentious lever.
I’m a believer and tonight the only thing I can know—blood to soul—
Both taste sweeter when I talk to God.
©2017, Amaya Engleking