Hang Together – Short visits with an honest God

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing.
Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?

The king was in the Whitehouse counting out his money.
The queens, in Mar-a-Lago, eating bread and honey.

The maid worked for the government hanging out fake clothes,
But down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.

There was DEI commotion, but Little Jenny Wren
Flew down into the garden and put it back again.

Outside my window, four and twenty blackbirds form an undulating carpet of wings. From them, I take hope. From me, they take grain. We do not begrudge each other these small takings. Is that enough?

“That’s a fair exchange,” the Unimagined whispers. “It is enough.”

As far as I can tell, I’ve lived in this one body my entire life. I’ve not thrown it on a grenade, but if needed, I think I would. I’ve not run it into burning buildings to save those unconscious from smoke inhalation, but if needed, I think I would. But would I?

These are my fantasies and aspirations. When I grow extra beans or beets, I share. Once, I was walking with a friend in the city late at night, and a mugger knocked her down. I chased him, but he got away. How are we to know if we are bit players or heroes?

“It’s your story,” the Writer says. “Remember your lines.”

My heart breaks for the runner who stumbles or the farmer whose tractor runs out of fuel while plowing the muddy field. The glancing back. The long walk home. The crowd dispersing. The rich preparing to eat themselves alive, knives sharpened, bones strewn everywhere. “Wait!” I shout, aware that I, myself, have stumbled and looked back. “Are those my bones?”

The Living Companion laughs. “Those are the ancestor’s bones. You still have flesh.”

I still have flesh. I still have carrots and dried kale. Oh, Force of Life, give me the audacity of blackbirds singing from the center of the pie. The king cannot partake of singing birds. And may I borrow the tenacity of little Jenny Wren, putting the faces together again?

The Bane of My Existence chucks me on the chin. “Sure, but keep in mind, some things broken cannot be fixed. And don’t sing alone if you can help it, honey. The harmonies will help you remember your lines.”

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

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.

Tag: Hang Together

Remember Your Lines

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