Poker

When you start out writing a poem, you may end up telling the truth.

The complexities of The Deities formerly known as God predispose us to make dangerous assumptions about toxicity, truth, and time. Time does not heal all wounds. Some wounds are lethal and most leave visible scars. Truth is an approximation. An act of bravery. A ride down the rapids of turbulent realities. Truth is neither for the faint of heart nor those unwilling to change perspectives. And toxicities are often invisible. The shake of the hand, the brush of the lips. Misunderstood intentions, unwitting contaminations.

Fall back, I tell myself. Fall back to the basics.

But without permission, The Deities have dealt me in. I don’t like gambling. I try to slink away, but they shake their heads. They are Holograms. Robots. All-seeing Eyeballs. Holy Drones. They’re more like devices than deities.

Each of them has at least three arms, and their ears hear everything. The future is permeable, fertile, and seductive. I want more than the hand I’ve been dealt. I want more than today. More.

“You couldn’t handle more,” The Deities say. “We don’t believe you.”

“Well, I don’t believe you,” I tell The Deities.

“Yes, you do,” they state flatly. “You do.”

And they’re right. I do believe, but it’s twisted. How dare I believe in love when I know what I know? I want to love and be loved without motive, without pockets full of caveats and caution. I want to love smart, not gutted. I want the thick armor of wisdom, not penetrable vulnerabilities. I want the faith to travel unencumbered, but instead, I over-pack.

“Texas Hold ‘Em,” the Dealer declares.

“Ha! That’s rich,” one of them chuckles. “Texas doesn’t wanna hold ‘em.”

The Dealer slaps down the last card, face up. All that’s visible strongly suggests I fold. I do not have two aces in the hole. A poker game with omniscient players is an idiocy many of us cannot resist.

We play until the wee hours bring light over the horizon. Outside, a red-winged blackbird balances on an impossibly thin twig. The Deities commune over breakfast beer and my sister’s deviled eggs. It is Easter morning, and as usual, I’ve bet more than I can cover.

The Deities pluck Eider down from their own chests to make me safe and warm. They grind themselves from grain to flour and break the steaming, fragrant bread. I am nourished. Mercy oozes from the pores of the fatally wounded earth. My gambling debts are covered.

“Good game,” the Deities declare. I’m at peace. I’m tempted to rest. But because of the flood, there are stones to move. There will always be stones to move.