In Sheep’s Clothing

News flash: There’s a deadly outbreak of malice spreading rapidly. We’re all at risk. The Belt of Truth is too tight on our fat bellies. We’ve armed ourselves with swords of scorn and hatred. Most days, I am sick with fear.
  
“Ice cream?” God offers. “Roses? Chocolate? A little nap?” 
I make the sign of the cross and turn away. 
She continues, “Wanna shoot some hoops? How ‘bout them Celtics?”
“Leave me alone. Go smite someone or something,” I say. “I’ll help.”

“Nah. That’s nonsense,” she laughs. 
“As I’ve explained many times, I don’t smite. 
That’s all projection, poetry, and myth.”
“But doesn’t it matter?” I argue. “Isn’t something true?”
“Well, yes, fables have morals, and there is such a thing 
as poetic justice,” God agrees and rambles on.

“But that’s like when you trust a dead branch 
and it breaks. Chicken Little was not famous for laying eggs, 
and the boy who cried wolf missed his cue.”

“Did I miss my cue?” I ask. I’m dizzy.
 
A cold wind has picked up, 
distorting the faint clarion call I’ve been straining to hear.
It sounds like a flute.
“Tune it out,” God says.
“It’s the seduction of ravenous rats. 
And there are self-anointed royalty riding golden calves,
herding innocent swine into the sea. 
It’s a rave. A goddamn rodeo.”
 
The ordinary disintegrates as the storm intensifies. Finally, God is joined by God. And God. They’re closing the Interstate, rerouting traffic onto narrow byways. Rusting tanks and trucks stalled with rotting food aid line both sides of the road. It’s not scenic. Drivers look straight ahead to avoid these views, but even now, there are children playing in the streets. It takes skilled swerving to avoid catastrophe.

I’m driving our oldest vehicle, a Chevy from the 60s.

“Get in,” I shout to the Gods and the children.“We’re making a break for it.”
They pile in, and I stomp on the gas. 
Our necks snap as the Chevy lifts off and we achieve cruising altitude.
“Ouch!” the Gods complain. “Whiplash!”
“Oh yeah?” I flash a sinister smile. “I’ll show you whiplash.” 
I tilt the wheel straight down, and we plummet back to earth.

We crash land in Gaza. Sudan. Ukraine. Congo. 
We smash into infirmaries and food banks with empty shelves. 
We crawl out, wounded and dead.
The sky has fallen.

Chunks of heaven are thundering toward Gomorrah 
and the Fat Boy is screaming WOLF
while the wolves remove their bonnets 
and fling their sheep’s clothing aside.

It is time to gather at the river, 
wash the discarded wool, 
spin the yarn, 
and knit ourselves back together. 
It’s going to be a long, cold winter.