Against Screwtape’s Missal
He knows the tongues of stones and dunes and sand,
Those tiny rocks that only mystics know.
He knows the languages that wind has fanned
Across the deserts till they meet a mesa’s glow
And dryness. Tumbleweed, mesquite, the best
This landscape loves, compels the eye to search
For meaning other than a prophet’s chest
Of hairiness to mock at hope. To lurch
Through purgatory is his goal until
He finds a gospel he can turn to thought
That natives grasp, a piglet to instil
With meaning by the Baby Jesus’ cot.
The Spanish “esperanza” distracts him
Obtruding like a fallen angel’s hymn.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Mar 10, 2025 | TR |