i’ve replaced my books of theology
with books of aching poetry
that tell me more about god
than the dusty old tomes ever did
bringing their presence close
while Farrokhzad and Sappho whisper
dreams of an unseen world –
possible but just out of reach
as Layton and Bukowski scream
ever of our eternal need

who needs the absent father
mother is the creator of us all
bearing savage witness
as poetic lullabies to dull the pain
(or maybe enhance it)