(This poem appeared in the now-defunct Every Day Poets, November 30, 2012.)
You came the way
you tend to, in a dream,
and took me down to a little
brook in the Hebron Hills
where the water whispered something,
and the faint smell of rotting meat
was tempered by the scent of honey.
I remember thinking that this was our first
moment, just you and me and peace.
I thought I saw in the distance
a temple, and from it issued chants
to a strange deity, and I started to ask,
but you invited me to sit, and I let it go.
We had a picnic there, and on the gentle bank,
you handed me a piece of fruit.
I didn’t taste it, but
pulled from the dream
by the blare of my alarm,
I thought I saw a pair of scissors gleam in the basket.
I took it as a sign never to confess to you,
and anyway, I don’t think I could ever say
that you’re my favorite of all His works and ways.