The Lord comes to my house.
Delivers the message from the bank,
“My account is short of minimum balance.”
Late in the afternoon,
I get a call from the Seven Angels:
I have sinned for not submitting my income tax on time.
Ashamed of peer pressure, I drink, dance,
and sing Merry Christmas from my rooftop.
At the end of the year,
the large crowd of scribes issues a new commandment:
“The names of the scriptures be changed.”
Cut off from the past,
the kingdom of the old dynasty
Clamors for crumbs of lost native glory.
None too happy with the silly conversation of married men
Leaned against the crystal office desks,
The widow call center worker is tempted to undress
in the anaemic streetlights…
Snowflakes burn alive in the charcoal fire.
Children gather hairy snails in damp fields.
Grateful parents wait for hot omelette in the living room.
Another year knocks at the door…
Another miracle descends from the sky…
Oh Lord,
We can no longer hide from your promise.
We can no longer keep the debt unpaid.
Absurd as it may sound
I tell you the truth,
“Faithfuls buy prophesies on credit cards and
Pagans wash their empty hearts on the holy stone.”
© Meenal Jain / sourced from Facebook
Written in December, 2005, and published in the anthology My Grandfather’s Imaginary Typewriter (2014).
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