Nathan Hauke
Parson Hooper's Voice Comes Through the Back of My Head
God’s voice sputters, a rusted old Chevy—looking left to—
Pulpy yellow leaves float and fold in a spiral—the current pleating in
spiral. The phone rings, but don’t
answer the phone because—Your soul looks like a ripped green
water balloon. Your soul looks like garbage scattered through
bleachers. It looks like a staircase broken off between floors. God
sees right through you—You know he does—, and
he won’t stop hounding; his voice follows you around the
village with a sniper rifle. God laughs at you from behind the
meat-counter, says, Pick a number.
Sees right through you when. Just try to sit there, drink your
coffee, and read the newspaper. Pulpy yellow leaves. He sees
right through you, and you know he does. Wind-moans,
creaking through shadows—an owl in path-light near a flooded
tire tread, and
you know he does when. Fear opening corridors in
your chest—down the long hallway and—
God won’t stop hounding—a long hallway full of mirrors.
Bright orange and bright yellow flowers go black at the edges.
This time, insert the word, Heaven. Your soul, your secret
sin—gunk and change in the car’s cup holder. Fear opens corridors—
same as anyone’s.
The world is a weathered coil of blue hose next to an empty
pool at the Howard Johnson’s, and God wants to stomp you
like a spent juice box, like sick, frost-stifled flowers. Insert the
word, Heaven.
God says, Pick a number, and you pick.