width=61 height=87> Voracious Verses



Tracy R. Franklin

Begging for God

Eloi, Eloi, do you even hear my question?
I am an organically stupid child,
wearing dirty jeans
worn out at the knees
from too many nights spent
in too many bathrooms with
too many people.
I will never learn.
I try, though, I try,
sitting alone in a corner,
trying to scoop the shale out of my head and
make room for what Iím supposed to know.
All I get are bloody hands.
Itís my own fault;
I was told from the Beginning
to be quiet and 
sit still.
I wish for a wilderness to wander in,
a place where I can open my throat and
spill my grief into the wind,
watch a gust whip it up and
scatter it
until it can hurt no one.
As it is, there are only domesticated bathrooms,
planted in beds of ears.
I cry out as loudly as I can without
breaching the noise of the bathroom fan,
as long as I can before
I have to make a showing.
I cry out loud,
and long,
and orphaned.
Intellectually, I believe
that God runs through my veins
like blood, 
but I am anemic still.
I kneel again, as I have so often---
forehead, knees, toes pressed against
arms around my gut,
this time,
the first time,
I send my prayers into myself,
hoping the implosion
will send me back into the Universe.

© 2008 Tracy R. Franklin