no angel has stayed my hand. 

never have I been told to count

the stars of the sky or grains

of sand. I speak in metaphor

only on the page, and never

as prophecy. no one anoints

me with fresh-pressed oils, 

denounces my daily ablutions. 

some mornings I bear all 

of the punishment and none 

of the sin. some evenings 

it feels like the opposite.

I have stood before oceans,

and seas, and lakes, walked in

up to my neck, and beyond,

with no sign of a pathway

opening before me. I pray

and there is only god’s stillness.

and yet—I listen. some days,

I hold a blade to my children’s

throats, casting about for a ram.