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Ode to My Prophet

Your gift of sight penetrates my soul like a hidden knife
in the darkness and with your judging green eyes
make me feel naked and alive.
Shamelessly I look at your emotionless
the face that has sleepless nights and worldly worries for makeup—
your yellow teeth and dry lips speak of the future.

A future that you deliriously claim to be doomed:
the quakes, the hurricanes, and the fires.
In your brief visits to the sleeping kingdom, you wake up screaming
“The Fires, the fires can’t forget those!”
I hold you between my arms
and whisper prayers to the Father and the Son. 

Medics and shamans have been unable to stop,
your shakes and blackouts.
The Priests call it a blessing
the press can’t stop knocking our doors
our families turned their backs on us.
The world turns and turns.

Your prophecies begin to come true—
the world burns,
the grounds shake,
and the skies cry in agony,
sinners beat their chest and ask for forgiveness.
There is no salvation for us.

Your eyes turn skyward
your heart stops beating,
I sigh.
The prophet of doom
between my arms
passes to the kingdom of God.
Alone I cry.