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.
Virginia Konchan is the author of two poetry collections, Any God Will Do and 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.
