The Calvinist

Should I be unafraid—hold to faith

and water—as God scowls down pointing his finger

at one of us or the other, picked like vegetables

for ripeness or no reason at all. Only the blessed

go to heaven—only the blessed should—the rest of us

have burned ourselves.

Punished by the blister, Mother sits and cries—

Father throws his weight around—all the unpaid vacations

—tragic song of our times. A newspaper

grows thinner, running out of lies. Somewhere up above

Jesus shakes his dice—we have forgotten

how he died—

A sponge of bitter kindness

and a wounded side.