Night

Not even a breeze tonight.
The moon looks like a monocle
worn by a judge, the blackness
his robe. He wants truth, won't
let me hide. I plead I was given
a road map that's sketchy.
He tells me everyone's is.
                                        -- Stephie Mendel

God Prefers Us Naked

Do you know about the Rapture? How after the battle of Armageddon the
righteous will be lifted out of their clothes right up into the sky? Perhaps, on their
way to heaven, they’ll be undressed by snowy angels, soft angel fingers unzipping
and unbuttoning, gently lifting out bare arms and legs– pants, shirts, dresses, socks,
underwear of the righteous all fluttering down upon the trees and rivers, golden
sand. Then, Whoosh! The naked whisked straight up to the right hand of God.

All the others, like me, will be burned on the spot.

But maybe if I beat God to it, rip off all my clothes in front of strangers, say, look,
say to God, look, I don’t believe in you but look– wrinkled skin, clogged blood,
brittle bone, warts and moles, say, look, this is what I’m made of, then maybe
God’ll get confused, impressed, stop right in his tracks, say, what the hell is going
on here, say to himself, hey, maybe I’ll spare this one, naked as a baby, who’s
already halfway there.
                                        -- Rose Black