Dear Anodyne

A poem written at the Iowa Young Writers' Studio.


Dear Anodyne

I found God on the corner

of 27th and Main.

Biting his nails,

and spitting them out,

onto his red shoes.

It is rare to see,

God so down.

The rats eat his heart,

on the coffin

where he sits.

If I had the guts

To talk to God,

I would tell him

About the dead birds

In the box beside him,

And that they’re going

To Canada

For the Winter

Because even death

Don’t stop migration.

“Lightning: Interested?”

God says as he spits

a bloody thumbnail

onto the pavement.

Storms took the birds down,

You see.

Blinding light

Is God’s worst nightmare.

‘Cause then it’s

too bright

to get drunk

on the Universe.

And if God ain’t drunk,

he’ll know you’re an asshole.

That’s how the floods start.

He tips

the vodka

to His lips

right there on the street corner

and swigs real slow

so you might see

His speech slur.

Slurring is always a good sign.

‘Cause the reality of it is,

If you can watch him drown himself

In your sorrows

then you might be safe

from what’s about to come.

And if he can

drink the world away

from the dark corners

of the Universe

then maybe

just maybe

you won’t be so alone after all.

But he’ll still stumble

a drunk’s waltz

and have a bleeding thumb.

Hell, he might even weep.

But you can deal with that

‘cause you ain't dead.

And in a world where the

afterlife

ain’t real,

“Survival” is the name of the game.