Amy Cuneo

Questions that come in the evening

The grey breezy bit before night
has got me low-nly
The husbandness of life,
the motherness and workness
The fitness, the bristling palms
And yet no soft aligning

-maybe just today.

Is it dishes death dust?

Is it dishes Jesus’ life?

Is it dishes my heaven, your hell?

Either way there’s dishes.
Hell; is it worse than dust?
Heaven, is it better than this?

Dishes; I have never perfected them, not in this life

If my son died
wouldn't I scream at you God-and question you?
And ask you if you were there? And demand more
Than you could give?

And do I still believe after all this, that you have
just lit slipped the moon rise tide
Slide waves turn every pen touch a gift, a gift, a gift.

The curtains suck in god breath and exhale, tired of
My constant questions.

I’m tired too.