Slim Fantasia on a Few Words from Hoseo
                                               
                                                Take words with you and return to God
                                                                                    — Hosea 14:3

I.

Poor Hosea, who
can stomach him? 
marrying that
harlot, leaving
her to languish 
in the desert,
giving his own kids
those vile names.
Not to mention
speeches full of
graphic retribution.
Probably the people —
if they ever gathered
in the first place —
after a phrase or two
just walked away. 
Me?  I can’t even
read him on an ideal
afternoon at the perfect
distance of a holy
language.  But it
turns out I’m the one
he’s talking to:  hey,
big-mouth poet,
lifting the gem-
stones from the Bible:
take words with you
and return to God.


II.

I love the way
he doesn’t say
which ones.
I’m tempted to
bring along the
entire dictionary;
that way, God can
choose whatever words
He likes.  But what
if He starts ripping
out whole pages,
declaring everything
on them and their
synonyms off-limits, 
says: okay, I’ll take 
praise, torah, God.
You can find your
own words;  leave Me 
out of this.   But 
here’s a tip:  you’re
focused on the wrong
half of the quotation.
The important section  
is return to God.


III

By which He’d
have a point,
but what if He
doesn’t tell me
how to get there?  
Where did I think
I was heading
with my OED? 
The Holy Temple’s
been destroyed. 
And in its place
— according to
the radio this
very morning —
they’ve got live
bullets and a
vindictive crowd
shouting something
in Arabic I can’t
make out, but it isn’t
take words with you
and return to God


IV.

It’s not as if — by
the way — I have
any kind of handle
on what is meant
here by the word
return. When,
exactly, was I
ever with Him? 
The closest I’ve
come, if I’ve
been in the vicinity
at all, has only
ever been a matter
of words:  the kind
Hosea’s after,
interchangeable
with beaten gold,
that show up in
the lining of the
holy of holies
I didn’t know
was lodged
inside my brain . . . . 


V. 

Maybe it’s like
an algebraical
equation, in which
the word and
stands in for equals
until take words
with you means
return to God.


VI.

Or maybe I was
wrong about
that crowd;
Hosea’s words
were uttered, but
with a different
intonation;  it’s an
imperative to die:
return to God. 
And take words
with you is the
stone-thrower’s
signal that he’s
throwing stones
because he’s tired
of words and more
words, especially
the ones delivered  
by an inaudible
Landlord, whose
ancient promises
have now expired. 


VII.

But shouldn’t I
describe this day,
another perfect one?
The sky, as usual,
uninterrupted . . .
only at its edge,
a strip of cloud,
the torn-off fragment
of a holy page
reading: take
words with you
and return to God


VIII.

I’d love to take
dictation on a
cloud;  I’d pluck
a feather from a
passing cormorant
and moisten it with
remnants from a
seven-sided snow-
flake, sequestered
in an overly warm
fog.  At least I think
it might make an
imprint on a cloud.  
Then, if I found a
way to fold it up,
I’d take it with me
and return to God.


IX.

Or maybe I’d be
returning to Hosea,
or not Hosea, but
the scalding place
I suspect Hosea's
words have been   
or not — let’s be
realistic — the very
place;  I’d settle for
their general direction. . . .


X.

Of course, needless
to say, I’d lose
sight of them. 
Even my one cloud
has disappeared.
Heaven’s rejoicing,
it can finally get
back on schedule
delivering its daily
empty aerogram.
And I, like a fool,
will stand here,
squinting at the sun,
reading the entire
text  aloud. Don’t
tell me it’s empty. 
I’ll take any inter-
ruption, anything
the sky will dare
to hold, anything
but Hosea and his
crackpot exhortation: 
Take words with you
and return to God