Homiletic

By VIRGINIA KONCHAN

Nothing is analogous to God.
In order to strike, a cobra also needs
to recoil. When it comes to vice
and juridical proceedings, I abstain.
All good things, and strokes of bad luck,
happen in threes, and so let it be this way
with us: from lust, to neutrality, to disgust.
And yet the bare ruined choir. And yet the
meteor shower, particle physics, and gnarled
fruit. The doctor is still shuddering, waiting
for an operable body or consistent theme.
Let me tell you a different story.
I am asking for forgiveness for buying
stock in high proof liquor, for making
eyes at the neighborhood gnome.
Evolution: the identification of a need,
the fulfillment of a need. Daylight
ends, and we agree not to call this
a tragedy. I dismount this life
like a gymnast from a vault:
valorously, without pride.
The opposite of loneliness is
the shared illusion of intimacy.
The opposite of an algorithm
is the futility of awakened desire.
So what if all being is hypothetical?
You took the last of my imagined
grief, and left me with fire.

 

[Purchase Issue 17 here.]

Virginia Konchan is the author of two poetry collections, Any God Will Doand  The End of Spectacle; a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift; and three chapbooks, including  Empire of Dirt. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, The New Republic, Boston Review, and elsewhere. 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Homiletic

Related Posts

Image of a a large yellow Weeping Willow tree against a bright blue sky.

Selections from Lettres en forêt urbain

BERTRAND LAVERDURE
Your saffron-colored sticks flatter my circular daydreams. The road is a second-hand dealer of wood who doesn’t mark their prices. A colony of bags, spare with its conclusions. You are the lookout post of a dead stream. Calm like a descent, breath held [...]

Glass: Five Sonnets

MONIKA CASSEL
In ’87 I see guardsmen walk their AK-47s / on the platforms. The trains slow down but never stop. I think, / my mother was born in such a different Germany, but this is true for everyone / —so why can’t I stop looking?