Imagine: to ask
and to be answered.

Even the son of god
knows what it is

to beg and be met
with silence.

At noon the black sun
coats his mother’s eyelids

while everywhere
so much beauty.

I pray and the prayer
is beautiful

like the shadow
of a corpse.

I pray and knit
the silence

into something else.
My anger the hot heart

of a just slain fish
still beating.

My womb the wet
yolk of a coconut

losing water
over time.

*

Octopuses live
alone and do not

like to be touched.
Scientists once

fed them ecstasy
to make them tender:

a high dose caused
hypervigilance

a lowered dose
made them gentle.

Affection gained
by trickery

drugs
through the gills.

In this way
I was once married.

Back then
I asked god questions.

*

These last two
weeks of lent

worshippers wash
in spilled blood

together. A mercy
god does not give

his own son
who dies alone

the most human
he could possibly get.

Whether god
or an octopus

the question is
what is life for.

This passiontide
marks my sobriety

from illusion:
perhaps

I am not a worshipper
but an octopus.

Perhaps it is bearable
after all

to ask
without answer.

Like god’s son
I can wait alone

as the seed goes down
into darkness.

You see
the vast nothing

is holier than
the poisoned tank.