The Problem with Theology

The problem with theology
Is that I do not know
I should feel bad
About killing that family of rats
With a shovel.
— —
We have forgotten
What happens
When I get this way.
These are not traditions;
These are only habits.
— —
What do I hold
In my mind,
As I hold my shovel:
A garden,
With weeds to pull—
Storage to be protected
Or blind infants
With flaccid skin?
— —
For now, the rats and I
Know each other
Through my shovel,
Through our compost,
Through the fine mesh
I nail over the holes
They gnaw into our home.
— —
We look through another
Toward absolutes
And launch into oblivion.
To leave orbit
Is to leave
So much more.
That is the only real end.

Evan McManamy lives in Newburyport, Mass.

Posted in: Meetings and Money, Poetry

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