how long
should you
hold
another’s gaze
down a narrowing corridor or
a door open across
a sparsely square or bless
the victim of a multifaceted sneeze
before it becomes
awkward, leaving
you, each, flailing beneath
the weight
of compulsory debt?
or
is this a meager cross borne
by a meager Christ longing to
save the world
with his hands?
by JS Gilbert
Yes, But
Our fear of slippery slopes
kills joy in its sleep,
ties God’s hands behind our backs,
rises from Satan’s coffee to
curl about his face as he stands
in his bathrobe watching a black
dawn loom above the trees.
Published in Strange City Digest, Winter/Spring 2021.