Meditations in a Swine Yard (a poem from the book Talking Dirty to the Gods, by Yusef Komunyakaa)
A god isn’t worth the salt
In our bread if we can’t
Stamp our feet & shake a balled fist
At eaters of the brightest insects
On their first day here.
Sometimes we must tug him out
Into the hog’s bloody mud.
His beauty is our blue
Derision, like a child banging
Her rag doll against the floor,
Calling for Daddy. A god isn’t worth
A drop of water in the hell of his good
Imagination, if we can’t curse
Sunsets & threaten to forsake him
In his storehouse of belladonna,
Tiger hornets, & snakebites.