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  • Writer's pictureKevin O'Keefe

God's fingers (poem)

Updated: Mar 30, 2020

rise long and slender

from the needle-strewn earth

his pinky sways close to our tiny home and

we don’t want to die in bed.

It isn’t whimsy or the need for a

big sky, that keeps us up at night.

Last month, an old maple sheared

off the wall of our shed.

In his palm I wish to rest but

a black gooey stigmata pools there.

Sixteen-feet closer where I was told he lives

his fingers open into two crisp peace symbols—

nothing goes out of fashion in his open air closet.

Later this week a pig farmer will come over and chain saw

the bottom while I pull a cable halfway from the top in his bouncy tractor.

The whole morning I’ll apologize for the song of grief called “technology.”

In the falling trees’ earth-shaking echo I’ll have my Hercules moment,

suspicious that its’ shadow will overtake me.

I’m told, a trees’ roots are twice its’ canopy.

If so, there’s a whole world

I’ll have to beg forgiveness from

when I go down.

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