God and Catfish
One more poem
about God, and sheep,
plump genus Ovis.
Recreated artificial sacrificial gesture,
how many symbols does it take
to describe an event.
Give me a few lines about the guts
of non-symbolic fish.
You know, the real kind.
Like a catfish. Unapologetically ugly,
lurking like all good Ictalurus do.
What poet could find God in such a body,
water cockroach with
lips bulging, burping along
the scum of the Santee.
Hand me lumped-up
water-logged flesh, not that crisp
tasteless wafer-thin wafer, wait
in line, head bowed, starve to be saved.
Starve? No thanks.
God knows I love a good
corn-meal coated, pan-fried catfish
any day of the week.