God-Shaped Hole
I’m told I have a God-shaped hole,
an empty place inside where eternity
has stilled my restless ticking.
There’s been no bleeding, no stigmata.
It sits empty like a seldom-used pocket
to hold echoes of memories, a deja vu
wrapped in bright string.
I wonder if the hole is expanding
like the universe. Did it start
as a bullet hole, a divine drive-by shooting?
Is it the size of the car the shooter jumped into to escape?
If God touched me with His finger,
it would be like being poked by New Zealand.
I’m told God is three inches taller
than Kenneth Copeland. It’s obvious
if you trace both of their hands on paper.
That would make God six inches taller than I am.
It explains why my bones creak
when he steps inside
and stands to His full height.
I’m told I have a God-shaped hole,
an empty place inside where eternity
has stilled my restless ticking.
There’s been no bleeding, no stigmata.
It sits empty like a seldom-used pocket
to hold echoes of memories, a deja vu
wrapped in bright string.
I wonder if the hole is expanding
like the universe. Did it start
as a bullet hole, a divine drive-by shooting?
Is it the size of the car the shooter jumped into to escape?
If God touched me with His finger,
it would be like being poked by New Zealand.
I’m told God is three inches taller
than Kenneth Copeland. It’s obvious
if you trace both of their hands on paper.
That would make God six inches taller than I am.
It explains why my bones creak
when he steps inside
and stands to His full height.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson