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Issue 6




I wandered forty years for you, an angry man

in an angry desert, stomping out the hundred

thousand million miles home.


They followed me as if I knew what I was doing,

as if you’d told me anything, as if you’d given me

a single word.


Yes, you provided sand-encrusted bread, and a stick

that once parted the sea, but the death you pushed

into my hands – you made a blind executioner of me,

lord, a helpless ruler whose utility was measured

in plagues and hangings.


How could you punish sheep for misunderstanding?


As I slaughtered thousands of my own I could only pray

you’d be kinder. I could only search each sandy second

for something yet unbroken. Some peaceful land would be

a nice token.


Lord, I don’t want your desert Love,

your human Milk or bloody Honey:

in this sick Sinai heat, they’re all going off.

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