Thomas Griffin
Getting Over Christ
But I’m comfortable with worthless.
You said that’s who I was—
this original indiscretion
and I’m comfortable with that
now you want me to change?
I should be brilliant, talented, powerful
stand up straight, comb my hair to one side?
Well, I can’t do that.
I’ve had a bellyful of worthless
and like how it fills me out, spills
past my pant loops and trips me
when I get ahead of myself
this automatic door closer
in the eyes of strangers
stills my cell bell
stabs itself into my veins with its needleful of perpetual offense
blots my vision
a permanent black eclipse of confident immorality.
And you want me to what?
Rise from that death?
Suddenly regain my sight?
Come to my senses and talk
about life on the other side?
Christ, get over yourself!
Near Midnight in January
A waning moon in mist
slips into the bark of locust trees
along the driveway.
Having fought all day
the wood stove surrenders to the chill
that blows through every room.
Now there is nothing to hold onto;
the whistling of summer phoebes
are long forgotten.
