A Friend Of Mine Loves Jesus Like Air
but doesn’t wear a mask to shield her eyes,
never says lungs I’m sorry, I know,
inhaling him means exhaling you,
doesn’t think her love for god
makes the body hypoxic, makes Time’s
old face turn baby blue, rung through a
ringer washing machine squeezing
sin from history’s veins and
saving her from its touch. My friend
and I do not touch. The spirit between us
is cordial and warm, like a funeral director
selling her heart the latest brochure on Heaven.
She knows I don’t believe in Heaven.
We chew that shock like a pop-sickle stick
wrapped in a cloth between our teeth
biting harder than the last time we spoke
about never speaking again.
Yesterday, she called and said, how can
you breathe and still not believe? I paused,
then took the deepest breath the world
has ever heard. Faith, I said, was the soul
on a string snagged on the body’s branch,
the slow dark whistle of a red balloon
hissing it’s deafening doubt.
Daniel Edward Moore’s poems have been widely published in many literary journals.
He has poems forthcoming in Broad Street Magazine, Tule Review, Weber Review, december, Natural Bridge, 2 Bridges Review, The Big Windows Review and Here Comes Everyone Magazine. His work has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His recent book, Confessions Of A Pentecostal Buddhist, can be found on Amazon. He lives in Washington on Whidbey Island.