The sky is ashen pink from the bushfires south,
lightning strikes, thunder growls, the fruit-bats fly out.
I think of the preacher’s mouth, telling us in the
End Times the sky would turn red and the sun would
dip into the earth and the heavens would strike barren
ground, desert storms, red, red, red gathering and circling.
Jesus would descend to gather his sacred flock,
fertile plains, of manna and green, of golden horses,
chariots and streams. Will he come and take me?
I watch the sky scarleting, blood moon.
The superstitions haven’t left. In the End Times I
never thought of floods—always drought.
This air so dry, brittle, cough cure; my lungs burn to inhale.
That lightning striking the ridge so real. Baptismal fires,
exsufflation sound. Mother Earth wanting to weep but only
parched lips finding cracked earth. Only sad eyes seeing mirage.
January 5, 2020
About this poem:
It’s funny how much your childhood still comes back to haunt you. I left the church at 15, but the religious-spiritual-superstitious brainwashing lingers.
