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Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Poem 023

“An angry prayer is stronger.”—Adam Zagajewski, “Smoke”

I have been torn by illness, worn my scars
like furrows that will never again sprout seed.
I’ve shaken out the corn from the bag,
have waited for God to part the thornbushes
that imprison my plundered body at all sides.
Where is the joy that I’ve been promised?
I sweep each floor looking for its glimmer.
My days of fullness are over:  I weep
for juniper and myrtle, for clapping hands.
I search for a corner in which I can crouch,
where I’ll find a pitcher of milk, a finger of wine,
on those days when I’m tired of my parched self,
of this sickness, the scans that glow so brightly
on the screens while skies above grow dimmer. 

Anya Krugovoy Silver of Macon, Georgia is the author of two poetry collections, The Ninety-Third Name of God (2010) and I Watched You Disappear (2014), both published by Louisiana State University Press. Visit Kingdom Poets to find out more about her."Sweeping" came from her reflections on Isaiah 55:8.