grey and greased dishwater
late, last thing – the whole day
and nothing
consecrated
slouched in dull fatigue
couch crumbed, mindless TV
& even sleep held under
a skim of chemicals
sleep your great benediction
your pulsing tug out of the body
and in
and out – prayer as a kind
of drowsing
from the fry pan I lift
my hands
dripping like hyssop
***
Psalm 141
(The title is Ps 141:2 NKJV)
A revision of this one, obviously.
Someone says this poem sounds "depressed." Well, yeah. But also an invocation against depression, against Acedia, who is the demon who gives me the most trouble. (No, I'm not going to tell you whether I mean that literally. Figure it out.) To write a phrase like "dripping like hyssop" is to lift a sword against the slippery bastard.
thankyou, erin