In appreciation of Maxim Gorky at the International Convention of Atheists, 1929

Like Gorky, I sometimes follow my doubts



outside to the yard and question the sky,



longing to have the fight settled, thinking



I can't go on like this, and finally I say







all right, it is improbable, all right, there



is no God. And then as if I'm focusing



a magnifying glass on dry leaves, God blazes up.



It's the attention, maybe, to what isn't there







that makes the emptiness flare like a forest fire



until I have to spend the afternoon dragging



the hose to put the smoldering thing out.



Even on an ordinary day when a friend calls,







tells me they've found melanoma,



complains that the hospital is cold, I say God.



God, I say as my heart turns inside out.



Pick up any language by the scruff of its neck,







wipe its face, set it down on the lawn,



and I bet it will toddle right into the godfire



again, which—though they say it doesn't



exist—can send you straight to the burn unit.







Oh, we have only so many words to think with.



Say God's not fire, say anything, say God's



a phone, maybe. You know you didn't order a phone,



but there it is. It rings. You don't know who it could be.







You don't want to talk, so you pull out



the plug. It rings. You smash it with a hammer



till it bleeds springs and coils and clobbery



metal bits. It rings again. You pick it up







and a voice you love whispers hello.





