The Deepest Well

show me Father how to say this
turn the stones to flowers in their hands
that I may withstand

and the Word with me this withering world.
caught in a glance, a shrug, a grouping together
at the punch table

oh God if you are able in these smallest of things
to reign, sustain me here.
where they are not gathered to hear

but to condemn.
spare me the quenching then that in every nightmare veers
early in the evening

before the dawn appears as if to shutter it;
to mutter like ravens scattering shade.
how vaulted are the heavens and everything you've made

but they have made even the sky a jail
and launch into it
to capture the sun.

I have written this down as if I were the only one.
before I drown let the Word not waver on the waves
or be dispelled by a cackling spell

consigning Beauty to the deepest well.

mary angela douglas 4 october 2019