Every night, after
a third finger of bourbon
the Angel confesses

He has never seen God.
No seraph has. Though
the satyrs claim

on quiet nights you hear Him
trudging through the forest
in my grandmother’s rubber boots.

They say God delights
not in the meeting of rivers,
but the thingsthey carry:

lawn mowers, golf clubs,
a donkey’s shoe or a brother’s footfall:
all collected as prayer. He

fills His jacket and becomes
the old-noosed tree; the dead
boy beneath; the dogwoods—
too early in bloom.

Tell me, can God sing
like a katydid; cicada-bellow
for the seventeen silent years?

Has He spoken with drought,
or forgiven the roadkill their crossing?
Will God see wildfires

through His beloved’s window, or
touch the thunderheads that swell
our creek past sacrament?

The Angel knows I am not seeking God,
just a synonym for home which
will not rhyme with mourning.

[Editor's Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Kat Jones during our annual Kickstarter.]