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.