July’s seared page turns and a breeze
Lifts over the garden of weary roses.
I step out over patchwork grass–
This is our hour, the moon climbing into the heavens,
Contrails and comets, the Big Dipper—quien sabe’–
The universe itself so carelessly lovely
As if a diffident god had cast pearls all about
For no good reason.
If God hears the hungry and the desolate
If God bears the suffering of the world,
I don’t understand, I cannot imagine
What heart could absorb it all, the bereft mother animals
Lowing in the dark.
Where does the sorrow in the world go, the child in me asks.
Into the dark holes in the sky?
Is it fuel for a fire at the edge of time,
Does it fan the flames of hell
Does it become water, does it reappear
As mirth when a child is born
Is it a chimera exulting
in the proliferation of graves?
But, I say to her, we were happy a second ago,
Wrapped in the wet and shaggy rapture
Of the animals that love us
And see out into the night
Deeply content, built of responsiveness and bone
Without dilemmas like ours.