It’s the what-is-seen
that has eroded your faith in belief:
bones embedded in rock,
exposed by the eyes of the sun.
It says that we are one
is a whole lot more
than a hippie’s anthem,
the chant from a guru’s flock.
And in the early morning hours,
there’s a movement in your womb,
the jump of what is changing shape
inside you.
Look closer.
Last month it resembled a fish
and then an amphibious-thing
on land, even before
the day you named her –
after the mother who tucked a Bible
in your bed, shedding tears that pooled
and rose,
like the rains that lifted Noah,
his lions and his lambs,
the ones bestowed the Earth:
without the firmament,
which held
the heavens’ waters
drowning the terrible
lizard-beasts,
gave excuse for miles of strata,
made a heresy
of African skulls.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image